


A Marriage Is For Life, Not Just For Deniable Accountability

by HoopyFrood



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Domestic Bliss, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Jealousy, Kidnapping, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Organized Crime, POV Male Character, Rescue Missions, Self-Doubt, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Team Up, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 02:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8693398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoopyFrood/pseuds/HoopyFrood
Summary: Ed proposes a proposal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU from 3x05 onwards.

Oswald loves mornings in the mansion. With the sunrise peeking through the gaps in the curtains before Olga throws them open fully to bathe the rooms in a soft, gentle warmth, he feels truly at peace. Getting to spend his mornings with Ed is just the icing on the proverbial cake. With breakfast spread out over the table in front of them and the day’s newspaper neatly folded to the side waiting to be read, it’s a level of domesticity Oswald never thought he’d be able to allow himself. Sleep softened conversation, pillow creased cheeks, and ruffled hair; he’s come to associate it all with Ed.

Today is no different. He secures the belt of his robe more securely around his waist and settles down in his usual seat. Fruit, yoghurt and pastries litter the table, with little pots of jams and spreads lined up in the middle ready for the fresh toast Olga brings out once they’re both sitting down.

Oswald’s begun to prioritise getting to breakfast first recently. He realised a couple of weeks ago after a particularly nightmare riddled night that if he arrives around five minutes to the hour, he’s gifted a front row seat to what has become possibly his most favourite thing about their shared mornings.

As if on cue, Ed shuffles in half-way through stifling a jaw cracking yawn behind a fist. His green tartan pyjama bottoms hang low on his hips, the drawstring tied into a limp bow the only thing keeping them from slipping down to his thighs, and a wrinkled white vest so thin it verges on sheer remains shucked up at one side. He already has a bunch of files stuffed under one armpit, no doubt having been looking through them in his room before finally settling down for the night.

It’ll always be a privilege to see this side of Ed, lacking the crisp lines of a suit and perfectly refined mask of Chief of Staff to the Mayor. Muted, is how Oswald would describe it. As if he's looking at him through the haze of a hot summer day.

They exchange brief ‘good mornings’ and Oswald finally allows himself to dig in, knowing it takes Ed a while to fully wake up. He’s only a few sips into his first cup of coffee when Ed suddenly speaks.

“We should get married.”

Oswald chokes into his mug, successfully getting coffee both up his nose and down his chin. Ed’s immediately out of his seat, taking with him some of the napkins their morning croissants had been delicately placed on. He gently cups Oswald’s cheek and dabs at the liquid, the white slowly turning a muddy brown as it’s soaked up.

“Are you okay? You haven’t scalded yourself, have you?” He demands, brow pulled together in a worried scrunch.

Oswald blinks up at him and gets a delightful waft that is part fruity shampoo, part fresh linen. He distantly remembers yesterday being the day Olga washes all of the bed sheets.

“No, I’m fine, thank you, Ed,” he says and awkwardly pats his forearm, fingertips tingling at the feeling of soft skin under them. “But I must have misheard you, because it sounded like you said we should get married.”

Ed screws up the soiled napkins and unthinkingly sticks them into the pocket of his pyjama pants before retaking his seat.

“I did.”

Oswald waits a few seconds, desperately trying to kick his brain back into gear as it sluggishly tries to process what he’s hearing.

“I don’t understand,” he says dumbly instead, his heart beat thumping loudly in his ears as hope blooms within his chest.

“We need to be clever, cover our tracks, be _airtight_ ,” Ed says in a rush. He’s much more alert now; the stilted movements of a person still missing their bed shaken off and replaced by the precision of someone that suddenly realises they’re much more hungry than tired.

Oswald tries not to grit his teeth. “Your _point?_ ”

“Spousal testimonial privilege,” he says, over enunciating each word with a grin. “We wouldn’t have to testify against each other. I was up all night thinking about it. Couldn’t believe it hadn’t crossed my mind before,” he adds with a laugh.

He’s practically vibrating in his seat. The echoes of a sleepless night spent otherwise occupied in the barely there dark smudges under each eye. Oswald’s chest constricts painfully and he briefly lets his eyes slide shut in despair. Of course. Of fucking course.

Ed lets an indecisive hand hover over a croissant before picking up a crumpet instead. “Shall I book an appointment for us to pick up a license sometime during the week, then?” He asks, scooping up a generous amount of butter from its ceramic dish with a knife.

He’s clinical. Blunt, even. As if they’re simply discussing another business venture or how to get rid of a body. Oswald swallows thickly.

“I,” he begins with a croak and clears his throat, fingers clenching uselessly at the edge of the table. “I need to think about this.”

Ed frowns. “What’s there to think about?” he asks around a mouthful of warm, spongy bread.

“No doubt you’re right, as you so often are, but I’d just like a while to go over the pros and cons.”

Ed stares at him, eyes narrowing ever so slightly behind his glasses.

“Of course,” he replies, voice suddenly devoid of its previous excitement, mask firmly shuttering down over his face. He drops his crumpet back onto its plate, a single bite marring the otherwise perfect circle, and gathers up the small pile of folders he’d left at his elbow, clutching them closely to his chest like a shield. Oswald would be charmed by the sight any other time. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Oswald flounders and gestures uselessly to the table. “But you haven’t finished your breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Ed—"

Oswald’s mouth hangs open in shock as Ed all but runs out of the dining room. He looks to Olga who has just bustled in with their fresh toast neatly stacked in an antique, silver-plated rack. She watches Ed disappear from sight and clicks her tongue in annoyance before angrily mumbling something under her breath.

“Just a misunderstanding,” he says to her with false cheer, unsure why he feels the need to justify himself.

She harrumphs and scoops up Ed’s discarded breakfast.

* * *

Oswald gives himself a couple of hours to collect his thoughts and for Ed to calm down before going to find him. They don’t have any appointments scheduled until mid-day so he should still be in the mansion. Since the morning’s disastrous breakfast, he’s slipped into his usual battle armour of a nicely tailored suit. _Always project the image of the person you want to be_ , is what his mother used to tell him. With his hair styled to perfection and eyes lightly lined with black, he rarely feels out of his depth. Whether it’s mob bosses, deranged killers or enhanced freaks of nature, he has, and will continue to, face them all head on with a smirk. But as he nears Ed’s office, it’s glaringly obvious that somewhere along the line, Ed became the sole exception to that rule.

Breathing in deeply, he marches over the threshold.

“Ed, I would just like to say—"

Ed holds up a hand from where he’s perched on the edge of his desk, back stiff as if he’s been sitting there in the same position for a while. Oswald shuts his mouth with an audible click.

“No, it’s quite alright. I understand. After all, who’d want to be married to me?” he says with a self-deprecating puff of forced laughter that hides something much sharper. “I apologise for assuming.”

Suddenly furious, Oswald limps closer and grips him by both biceps. “That has absolutely _nothing_ to do with it! Anyone would be lucky to call you their husband.”

Ed’s eyes widen in shock at the outburst and Oswald removes his hands like he’s been burnt.

“I mean,” he continues, calmer. “The press will hound you. Claim you slept your way to your position. I can’t allow that to happen. It’s _not worth it_.”

“I have considered and accepted all possible eventualities,” Ed admits dismissively. “And I must confess to a certain enjoyment in being underestimated. Hiding in plain sight has always been an effective cover as long as you can pull it off. I’d like a chance to rectify my past mistakes at the GCPD.”

He raises his hands to Oswald’s shoulders, fingers clenching and creasing the fabric. Oswald sways into the touch. “Don’t you see? This would be the making of us, Oswald,” he says earnestly, voice low. “Even when we can’t trust anyone else, we’ll always be able to trust each other.”

Oswald feels his face heat under Ed’s intense gaze.

“You’ll be stuck with me,” he grumbles, looking off to the side.

“Stuck?” Ed scoffs. “I’d be honoured.”

He should say no. Tell him he appreciates the thought but they can protect themselves numerous other ways. But Oswald’s a selfish man and the thought of having Ed at least this way if in no other feels him with a deep ache of want.

“Then yes,” he lets tumble out before he can stop himself. “Or should I say _I do_ ,” he jokes lightly, trying to disguise the wobble in his voice.

Ed’s smile is blinding and he immediately pulls Oswald into a tight hug, one hand sliding up through his hair to support the back of his head. “You will _not_ regret this,” he says, his breath ghosting the shell of Oswald’s ear. Oswald manages to repress a shiver and runs his hands across Ed’s shoulder blades, deliriously happy and unbearably distraught all at once.

“I hope so,” Oswald mumbles into Ed’s shirt.

“We’ve got so much to do!” he laughs happily, pushing Oswald gently from the hug but keeping him held close so he can look him in the eyes, thumbs resting on either side of his neck. “We’ll have to decide on either a small ceremony and reiterate we wanted to keep our ‘privacy’, or go for something bigger. Make it a real event. Get Ms. Kean involved, perhaps.”

Not for the first time Oswald's struck with the overwhelming realisation that he’d give this man anything. Gotham, America, the world. Whatever he desired.

“Let’s go all out,” he decides. “It’s got to be believable, after all.”

He matches Ed’s smile and tries to swallow down the bile that’s burning its way up his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

Not much changes once Oswald decides against his better judgement to play along with their little charade. Ed still leans in to brush non-existent fluff off his shoulders, still says bitchy little things under his breath that he _knows_ will make Oswald have to stifle a laugh, still brings his work to Oswald’s office when he’s feeling particularly social, finishing up his last few reports for the day curled up on the window seat. 

And Oswald? Oswald continues to let him in, let him _close_. All the while falling a little bit deeper every day.

He almost forgets about the whole ridiculous plan until Ed schedules a press conference for what he simply labels as ‘Engagement Announcement’ in Oswald’s Mayoral calendar. The innocuous little note twice underlined and framed with little exclamation marks. Oswald blinks at it for a minute or two. Well, he did say to go all out.

“It’ll be brief, relatively informal. Just a courtesy sort of thing, really,” Ed reassures.

The day itself comes around far too quickly for Oswald’s liking.

Ed’s instructed Gabe to set up some chairs on the front drive and get the podium they used during his campaign trail out of storage. Oswald originally wasn’t too keen about having the presser at the mansion, but Ed insisted. Something about how creating the illusion of letting them into the sanctuary of your home fosters a connection between politicians and the press. Or some rubbish like that. Oswald tuned out somewhere halfway through the explanation. Regardless, it’s nice to have the manor feeling so alive. People bustling in and out, trailing leaves across the hallway. Angry shouting from what sounds like his secretary Elaine, followed by a sharp slap. He must remember to give that woman a raise. Hell, he’s even had to fire someone on the spot! It’s been bliss.

Oswald’s watching Gabe through one of the large front facing windows as he wires up the microphone and speakers when Ed finds him. His cheeks are stained pink from the chill outside and his hair looks as if he’s been running his fingers through it over and over.

“They’re just being shown in now,” Ed says as way of greeting, slightly out of breath.

Oswald nods, snorting in amusement when a journalist cowers under Gabe’s gaze even though all he’s doing is politely showing her to her seat.

In the window’s reflection, he sees Ed cross his arms then immediately uncross them again, and his shoes squeak against the floor as he shifts on the spot. He’s _fidgeting_.

Maybe he’s having second thoughts, Oswald thinks bitterly. He clenches his hands into fists and prepares himself.

“What’s wrong?” he asks reluctantly.

“Nothing, nothing.” 

He waves away Oswald’s concern, yet the uncomfortable pinched look seems to remain on his reflection’s face. Oswald turns around to look at him directly and waits.

“It’s just, well,” he says in a rush, the words jumbling together in his haste, before taking a deep breath and pulling something out of his blazer’s inner breast pocket. “I intended to get something custom made but I saw this and it struck me as so ridiculously perfect I just couldn’t resist.”

A small black velvet box lies in the palm of his hand and Oswald’s traitorous heart skips a beat. He watches as Ed slowly opens it to reveal a ring comprising of a single amethyst set in black gold. He inhales sharply, hands shooting up to his mouth in shock.

“Oh, Ed,” he breathes. He feels the tell-tale prickle of incoming tears and rapidly tries to blink them away.

“May I?”

“Please do,” he says eagerly, quickly pulling off his glove to let Ed slide it slowly onto the ring finger of his left hand. It fits snugly, unlikely to fly off with the swing of a knife or a backhand across an unsuspecting face. A perfect fit.

“You know, supposedly, ancient Romans believed this particular finger had a vein that ran directly to the heart—the Vena Amoris, or Vein of Love,” Ed shares. “It’s a lovely thought, despite being factually inaccurate, of course. Every finger has a similar vein structure.”

“Of course,” Oswald echoes in distracted agreement.

“It suits you,” Ed says lowly, still gently holding Oswald’s hand in his, thumb skimming over his knuckles in a barely there caress. “I knew it would,” he states with a certain degree of confidence that betrays his nervous fidgeting from just a few moments ago.

“I love it,” Oswald says softly, marvelling over how the deep purple stone catches the light streaming in from the window, refracting off its sharp edges. “I’ll have to stop wearing gloves, though.”

“Okay, truthfully? I did not think of that.”

Oswald laughs. “It’s fine. A fair trade, I would say.”

They let a comfortable silence descend between them; Oswald utterly captivated by the ring and in turn unaware of his own captivated audience of one.

* * *

A sea of bland suits and sensible skirts greet him when he finally takes the podium. But with the comforting presence of his home tall and proud behind him, and Ed merely an arm’s length away to his right, the words come easily.

“Thank you all for coming at such short notice,” he opens. “I know it was a shock to you all when I appointed an unknown to my Chief of Staff, especially when coupled with my own relative inexperience. However, I believe he has more than proved himself over these last few months, as I’m sure you would all agree. His input on a professional level has been invaluable to my campaign. He has been able to provide a perspective on certain issues that I graciously admit would have otherwise eluded me."

He splays his hands on top of the podium as he leans forward to brace himself and catches sight of the ring, its colours even brighter in natural light.

“But the truth is this man has also been my rock. He picked me up when I was at my lowest. I’d even go as far as to say he saved my life. The moments we have shared together have been, for the want of a better phrase, life changing. Therefore, It is with my utmost pleasure that I, _we_ , would like to formally announce our engagement.”

He holds out a hand towards Ed who immediately takes it, fingers sliding between Oswald’s as if they were always meant to be there, and draws him in close to his side. Ed slips and arm round Oswald’s shoulders and presses a kiss to his temple. And _oh_. They hadn’t even discussed public displays of affection yet. Camera flashes briefly white out Oswald’s vision, but he still manages to force a wobbly smile onto his face, distinctly aware of the TV crew set up at the back of everyone.

A tidal wave of noise steadily builds up as questions are shouted over each other.

“How long have you been together?” Someone says.

“So the rumours were true, then?” Another adds.

“Don’t you think the Mayor keeping information from his constituents sets a bad precedent?” One particularly rat faced looking man slips in snidely.

Oswald’s only just saved from snapping back at him something childish like ‘well I’m telling you _now_ , aren’t I?’ by a woman sitting near the front.

“Mr. Nygma, is there anything you would like to add?” She somehow manages to pipe up louder than the rest. She’s smiling warmly and Oswald commits her face to memory. The more allies he has within the press the better.

Ed has to bend down to speak into the mic, the height having been adjusted for Oswald, and wets his lips. 

“I cannot wait to spend the rest of my life with him,” he says clearly and Oswald’s stomach flips. There’s a smattering of aw’s and applause in response. There’s no need to smother the delighted smile that’s threatening to break across his face, so he doesn’t. “We hope to have your continued support. Thank you,” Ed adds, effectively drawing the presser to a close.

Ed’s hand gravitates to the small of his back and leads him away from the barrage of questions and cameras.

“Perfect,” Ed praises under his breath and Oswald can’t help but preen.

“Congrats, boss,” Gabe says once they’re back inside and sweeps Oswald up into a bear hug that lifts him a few inches off the ground. Oswald awkwardly pats him on the back a couple of times, touched by the show of support.

“And you,” the bodyguard says, turning to Ed. “You hurt him and I’ll kill you.”

“Gabe!”

“What?”

Ed laughs and sticks out his hand. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Gabe takes the offered hand and squeezes, his meaty fingers enveloping Ed’s entire palm. A brief flash of pain flickers across Ed’s face but he quickly schools his features back into something more neutral, though his jaw remains clenched in annoyance. Oswald looks between the two of them, suddenly overcome with giddiness.

Pulling his hand from Gabe’s, Ed smooths down his blazer and clears his throat. “I have some business to attend to,” he says to Oswald apologetically.

Oswald’s smile dims. “Oh, yes, of course.”

Ed makes an aborted movement towards Oswald, hands hovering uselessly in the air for a few seconds, before seeming to make up his mind and leaning in close. He pulls back slightly in surprise when Oswald abruptly turns, their lips ending up inches apart. They share an awkward little laugh before Ed _finally_ presses a sweet kiss to Oswald’s cheek, letting it linger a fraction longer than the one to his temple did.

“Shouldn’t be back too late,” he croaks and pushes his glasses back up his nose from where they’d slid down.

Oswald nods, throat tight. 

He should tell him. Right now. Just get it over with. He reaches out and latches onto Ed’s arm, keeping him in place.

“Ed?” 

Ed half-turns back to him, face open and expectant.

He looks at his hand on Ed’s arm, fingers desperately clutching at the pinstriped fabric, and lets it fall away back down to his side. Pathetic.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you later,” he says with false cheer.

Ed stares at him, Adam’s apple bobbing in a swallow. “Right. Later.”

“I’ll follow him, if you want,” Gabe suddenly says once they’re alone, making Oswald jump in surprise. He forgot he was even there.

“What? Why?” He snaps.

“Keep him out of trouble? Make sure he stays safe? I dunno. Just sorta seemed like you didn’t want him to go, is all.”

“I never want him to go but he’s not paid to stand around and look pretty, he has a job to do,” he replies. “As do you. Go,” he adds, making a shooing motion with his hands. Gabe rolls his eyes and roughly palms Oswald’s head, ruffling up his hair and making him squawk in indignation.

* * *

Oswald’s pacing the dining room when Barbara, looking like she just walked straight off the set of Doctor Zhivago, struts in like she owns the place.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” she announces, a bottle of champagne clasped tightly in one perfectly manicured hand. 

He limps over to her, immediately reaching for the bottle and snatching it away. He expertly uncorks it and gulps down the fizz like water, a few stray drops escaping his lips and dribbling down his chin.

“Slow down, tiger,” she laughs with delight, the blonde locks that spill from her fluffy Cossack hat brushing her shoulders as she bounces on the spot and claps like an excitable child.

He slides the neck from his mouth with a pop and drags his sleeve across his lips before slamming the bottle down onto the table. Foam shoots out, erupting dramatically like a miniature volcano, before proceeding to gradually crawl down the sides, slowly creating a small puddle on the polished mahogany.

“Happy?” He spits.

“Deliriously,” she replies with a wide grin.

Oswald eyes her as she moves around the room, fingers dancing over the trinkets that line the fireplace and around various antique figures Oswald hates but doesn’t know what to do with.

“I must admit, I was surprised to hear you two were bumping uglies,” she shares, peering closely at a photo in an ornate frame. “Thought it was all depressingly one-sided on your part.”

“Yes, well, wonders never cease, do they?” He bites back. “What do you _want_ , Barbara?”

“I am here to selflessly offer my services as wedding planner,” she says with a mocking curtsy.

Oswald rolls his eyes and sprawls into the chair at the head of the table, grabbing the bottle of champagne on his way down. He takes another mouthful and tries to savour the tingle across his tongue this time. Glancing at the label he’s pleasantly surprised to see she brought something relatively expensive.

“So,” she begins and perches on the edge of the table beside him, elegantly crossing one leg over the other, her deep red fur collared cape pooling around her in waves. “I want details. Which one of you proposed? Did you cry?”

“He did,” Oswald answers, pointedly ignoring the second question. “It was a spur of the moment sort of thing. Over breakfast.”

That much is true, at least.

“Didn’t know Nygma had it in him,” she admits. “Colour me impressed.”

“Yes, he is impressive, isn’t he? Now, would you _please_ —"

“Oh!” She suddenly squeals, making Oswald wince. “Is that the ring?”

Oswald sighs and dutifully holds out his hand for her to inspect.

“Very you,” she says with obvious approval. “Guy’s got taste. Who knew?”

Oswald can’t help but smile at that. He doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of looking at it. Or the feel of its comforting weight encircling his finger. It’s like Ed’s with him even when he’s not.

“Anyway! Colour scheme, flowers, cake, guest list,” she dramatically ticks off each one with her fingers. “I’ll put aside my evenings at Sirens and we’ll _brainstorm_.”

She seems sincere. The usual manic edge to her gestures replaced by something resembling actual excitement, her eyes clear and bright instead of calculating and clouded. But it’s often hard to tell with Barbara.

“You genuinely want to help?” He asks warily, unable to stop a sliver of suspicion from leaking through.

She puts a hand over her heart and dramatically throws her head back, almost falling onto the table entirely. “I’m hurt. We’re friends aren’t we?”

Oswald shrugs helplessly and pulls a face because, Christ, he honestly has no idea.

“Pengy,” she coos. “We have _history_ , you and I. Both had our heart broken by the same boy—"

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” he interrupts shrilly, eyes darting around as if afraid someone’s listening.

She gives a bark of laughter and leans over to pat his cheek; the smell of her perfume tickles his nose pleasantly. “Like it’s a secret? Come on, we’ve both moved on! That’s something to celebrate. So yes, I do _genuinely want to help_. I’m going to throw you the best damn wedding Gotham’s ever seen.”

And that, well, that sounds really rather nice, actually.


	3. Chapter 3

Oswald’s shuffling across the landing after having fetched himself a glass of water when Ed comes creeping up the stairs holding his shoes in one hand. He blinks blearily at him, head still spinning from Barbara’s visit. After they’d finished the champagne she brought, they cracked open a few choice bottles from Oswald’s own collection and drunk most of the evening away. She’s already got a lot of ideas for the wedding. Some more ridiculous than others, naturally, but a few, well, a few Oswald definitely intends to bring up at their first little brainstorming session. He particularly liked her idea of an ice sculpture at the reception.

“Have you just got back?” He whispers unnecessarily, absentmindedly scratching at his bare chest exposed between the two sides of his open robe. When Barbara left, he only had the energy to strip down to his underwear before pitching face first into his bed.

Ed’s eyes flick down then back up, shadows playing across his face and shrouding him partly in darkness.

“Yes, it took a little longer than I thought,” he can’t help but whisper back.

Oswald nods with the understanding of someone not quite alert enough. “Everything go okay, though?”

“Eventually. May take a little longer to sort, but I’m hopeful.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about…” he trails off, mind fuzzy with sleep. “ _Whatever_ it is you’re cooking up, sometime.”

Socked feet quietly bring Ed closer to Oswald. His tie is loosened, hanging low around his throat, and he smells faintly earthy. Like a box of Christmas decorations hidden away in the attic, only brought down and opened at the beginning of December. He places his free hand on the base of Oswald’s neck and gently steers him to his bedroom door.

“Definitely. Get some rest, Oswald,” he says softly.

Once inside, he downs the glass of water and collapses back into his warm cocoon of soft sheets and plump pillows, immediately drifting off into a deep sleep born of emotional exhaustion and alcohol.

He wakes some seven hours later to the smell of fresh flowers.

Flopping over with a groan onto his side, he sees a vase that definitely wasn’t there yesterday, almost disappearing completely under a wealth of carnations, tulips, and lilies. He scrunches up his nose, the sweet scent verging on overwhelming, and attempts to move. A sharp pain immediately streaks up his leg as soon as he does, leaving him half raised off the bed, arms straining from the weight of holding himself still. That’s what he gets for not actually getting under the covers, he thinks, cursing himself for being so stupid.

Counting down from five, he throws all his strength into forcing himself up into a seated position. The resulting pain momentarily clouds his vision, and he sucks in quick, short breaths as hunches over slightly. Nearly there. Bracing himself for more, he wiggles his fingers under his bad leg and moves it until it’s dangling off the side of the bed. His stomach rolls unpleasantly and he swallows thickly, attempting to keep whatever’s left from yesterday down where it belongs.

He has to hold onto the banister tightly as he goes down the stairs, slowly taking each step at a time. Once he finally reaches the bottom he notices there are even more flowers lining the hallway, all neatly arranged in vases he wasn’t even aware they had. On his way to the dining room, he bumps quite literally into Ed who, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, is carrying a rather elaborate bouquet of his own.

They stumble together in an awkward dance, reaching out to grab each other so they don’t tumble to the floor. Oswald hisses at the sudden jolt to his leg this causes.

“Oswald. Sorry, didn’t see you there,” Ed apologises, head poking round the bouquet.

“It’s fine. What’s with all the flowers?”

“They’ve been arriving all morning. Well-wishers. And,” he shuffles the flowers into one arm and reaches behind him to fish out a rolled up newspaper he’d stuck into his back pocket. He holds it up and lets it unroll in front of Oswald’s face. “We’re on the front page of the Gotham Gazette.”

Oswald squints at it. “Have I missed breakfast?” he asks instead, mouth fuzzy.

Ed chuckles. “No. You’d better hurry though, remember you’ve got your monthly Information Forum at 11,” he says, following Oswald as he makes his way to the dining room.

Monthly Information Forum is just what Ed has taken to calling it when Oswald gets together all of his informants and spies for any updates they may have. A round table, of sorts. It’s easier to mark onto a calendar or write into a schedule this way, though, so it’s sort of stuck.

“That’s today?” he groans as he practically falls down into his seat. He rubs at his eyes, vision painful against the light streaming in.

“Unfortunately. I’ll go pick you out something nice to wear. Eat and wake yourself up a bit, okay?”

He leaves the newspaper facing up on the table next to him and Oswald takes the opportunity to study it closer. It’s a nice photo. If it was of anyone else, Oswald would think they look happy. In love, even. He smooths a finger gently over Ed’s smiling face, quickly snatching it back when Olga decides to place a plate stacked with pancakes covered in maple syrup directly over it instead.

Ed sees him to the car once he’s ready, chivalrously opening the door for him to get in.

“You’re more than welcome to come,” Oswald offers hopefully once he’s seated.

Ed leans an arm on the open door, his other hand splayed out on the roof of the car to support himself so he can peer in at Oswald. “It’s your domain. I wouldn’t want to encroach. Got a lot on, anyway.”

He eyes Ed suspiciously. He was back so late last night and he’s already running off to do something else?

“Your leg looks like it’s giving you a bit of trouble today,” Ed states, immediately derailing any and all unpleasant thoughts before they can form into anything dangerous.

“Oh, yes, slept a bit awkwardly,” Oswald says, unsure whether to be touched or embarrassed that he’s noticed. He’s left gaping, however, when Ed doesn’t reply and instead abruptly turns around and darts back into the house.

A few minutes pass before Ed comes sprinting back out to hand over an ice cold bottle of water and an unopened pack of painkillers.

“Make sure to keep yourself topped up,” he orders firmly, holding up four fingers before curling two down. “Two now, then another two in a few hours. Do you need a leg support? I can go get one.”

“No, no. Just need to get it moving a bit. Thank you, Ed.”

Ed looks at him pointedly.

“I’ve told you before; you can’t see it under your trous—”

“Must go!” Oswald interrupts, dislodging Ed from his perch as he pulls the door shut. He waves through the tinted glass as the car rolls away with a crunch across the gravel.

* * *

Oswald has a vague, general idea where the meeting is this month. He changes the location each time, conscious, or perhaps just healthily paranoid, about having it anywhere that could be traced back to him. An acquaintance that owes a favour to another acquaintance that has a friend willing to do anything to make a mess of his disappear who happens to know someone that has a place they can use for the right price. The chain usually goes something like that. Sometimes with more layers if one of his informants thinks they’re close to being found out or if there’s a particularly delicate on-going operation that month. Ed usually has a hand in picking somewhere suitable, genuinely finding excitement over the idea of making it as difficult to unravel as possible.

Today’s location happens to be the backroom of a restaurant that has a debt to pay in a specific part of the city that is _mostly_ under Oswald’s control, give or take a few rogue gangs. The decor's dated, wallpaper left hanging off the wall in mid-peel, the floor sticky with stains. A putrid smell permeates the air, expired meat perhaps, and he has to smother his nose with a hastily retrieved pocket square. He’ll definitely be looking into getting this place shut down.

The meetings themselves are usually surprisingly civil. He always makes sure everyone has a hot drink waiting for them; their preferences noted down and kept on record, with plush chairs to sink into. There’s something to be said about keeping your employers comfortable and in Oswald’s experience, it definitely pays.

They’re an interesting bunch, his current lot. The sleek and stylish mixed with the scarred and haggard. Men, women and everyone in between. They’re all accounted for, a couple looking a little worse for wear with a broken arm and black eye between them, but that’s of no real concern unless they specifically bring it up.

He sits at the head of the table, Zsasz by the door, ready to jump into action if need be.

“Let’s begin,” he opens professionally, like a CEO speaking to his best and brightest. “I hear there’s going to be a shipment of firearms coming in soon?” he directs to the room.

“Monday, around 01:00 to 03:00. Got two leads to who it might be,” a voice to his left pipes up. Jun, his mind helpfully supplies.

“Any idea what sort of weapons, exactly?”

“Heavy duty stuff. Ex-military.”

It’d be carnage if those got into the wrong hands. Or the right ones, depending on your view. Oswald taps his pen against his bottom lip in thought.

“Look into who’s the supplier, too, if you can.”

“Got some reliable contacts abroad that may be able to help.”

He skims his finger down his notes. “Daniel?”

A deceptively innocent looking 20-something tucks a stray blond lock behind one ear and leans forward eagerly.

“Things are getting a bit heated between the Gunsmoke Crew and Carlito’s boys.”

That is not good news. Both are prone to acting without thinking, and incredibly violent to boot.

“How heated?”

“Three low-level Gunsmokes turned up dead yesterday morning. Each had a single bullet between both eyebrows,” he says, making a gun with his fingers and lining it up next to his eye as if about to shoot. “They’re convinced Carlito has given a kill on sight order.”

It’s definitely plausible, knowing Carlito.

“And has he?”

“Everything points to it being The Brass Rats looking to stir shit with the hope they’ll just end up taking each other out. They have a lot to gain territory wise if they were to, after all. I need another day or two to get some solid info together, but once I do, I’ll get it to Carlito.”

“Good. We can’t have things escalate between them any further otherwise the Southside will end up being a no-go area and we can’t afford to let that happen. Not with how much we take in from the clubs there.”

“Sure thing, boss,” he finishes with a jaunty salute.

“Alexis,” he directs to a dark skinned woman sitting the furthest from him. “How’s progress going with wrangling an in with the Bianchi family?”

“Slow but steady. Angelo’s wife and I are going to get our nails done at the weekend,” she says with a grimace. “She’s intent on setting me up with one of her friends, too.”

“Oh, boohoo,” the woman next to her mocks. “A mobster’s gorgeous wife wants to set me up with one of her gorgeous friends, woe is fucking me.”

“Screw you, Leanne,” she snarls.

“You wish,” she fires back with a smirk, eyes bright.

Oswald holds a hand up. “Enough,” he interrupts. “Alexis. Just do whatever she wants. You get close to her, you get close to Angelo.”

The meeting continues much in the same way. Each person listing off anything of note and slowly getting Oswald up to date with the inner workings of Gotham he can’t personally oversee himself.

“Anything else?” He looks around the table. “Then I think that may be all for today,” he says and briefly goes through his papers just to make sure.

The tension in the room immediately drains away now that they’re officially off the clock. Some visibly relax and sprawl in their seat. One gives a yawn, stretching their arms up high above them. Another takes the opportunity to check his phone. Oswald usually gives them a minute or two to collect themselves before sending them on their way, but someone seems intent on ruining his carefully constructed routine.

“Where’s your boy at, anyway? You kept that quiet,” a man sitting halfway down the table says, slicing through the comfortable silence like a knife. His voice is gruff, with a twang that suggests he’s not local. Oswald looks him over. He’s leaning backwards, the chair balanced precariously on two legs, his muddy boots kicked up onto the table. He eyes his stupidly expensive leather jacket that’s not at all practical for his line of work, its collar popped up obnoxiously. A relative newbie, if he’s remembering correctly. Only been on one job for him thus far.

“My _boy_ is doing his job, most likely.”

“Bet he does all sorts of jobs for you, huh?” He says with a lecherous grin, dropping his legs and leaning forward as though sharing a secret with a friend and not a room filled with his colleagues and boss. “What with a mouth like that.”

The room goes deathly quiet, the soft chatter that had begun to build dissipating into nothing.

“What did you just say?”

“And those legs,” he adds with an appreciative whistle. “All the way up to his ass. You definitely know how to pick ‘em, boss.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Matt,” someone says under their breath.

“Hey, no offence meant, just guy talk, am I right?” he says, and elbows the man next to him who wisely shuffles his seat away.

“Oh, guy talk,” Oswald mimics as if only just understanding. He gets up and moves behind this Matt person to put a seemingly companionable hand on his shoulder. “Then that’s okay.”

He leans back in his chair to look up at Oswald. “Exactly,” he agrees, smiling widely. “You know, you’re alrig—”

Before he can finish, Oswald grabs the man’s hair tightly in one fist and viciously slams his head down onto the table, his nose exploding with blood on impact. He presses a gun painfully into the base of his skull to hold him in place.

No one moves an inch. Good. At least the rest know their place.

“If you ever talk about him like that again,” he spits, bending over his back to crowd in close. “If you even so much as utter his _name_ , I will personally hang you from the ceiling and slowly cut pieces from you one by one until you’re begging for me to put you out of your misery. Are we clear?”

He nods, or at least tries to, what with his face still squashed awkwardly against the table, drool slowly swirling with blood.

“I said,” Oswald snarls, pushing the gun harder against him. “Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” he mumbles into the wood.

“Good,” Oswald chirps happily and removes the gun. “We’re done, folks. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He gets a quick chorus comprising of ‘yes, boss’, ‘sure, boss’, ‘thanks, boss’ in response before they begin to finally file out, each one giving the target of Oswald’s wrath a wide birth as they go. In fact, he’s the last to leave, his head thrown back as he tries to stem the blood flowing freely from his nose and slowly staining his shirt into a gruesome Rorschach test. Oswald watches with distaste as he awkwardly walks into a chair, unable to see where he’s going. Zsasz comes to stand next to him once they’re alone.

“Want me to take care of him?” he asks. “Because it would be my honest to God pleasure.”

“No, just keep an eye on him for now,” Oswald replies reluctantly. It wouldn’t do any good to kill him whilst he’s in the middle of a job. That’d just be bad for business. “If he does anything else similarly… regrettable, though, then do as you please. I trust your judgement.”

“You got it, chief,” he relents easily with a shrug. “Oh, thanks, by the way.”

The ache in his leg pulsates angrily and he barely suppresses a pained wince. “What for?” he manages to force out as he rubs at his knee through the thin fabric of his trousers.

“You won me $100 yesterday,” Zsasz says with a wide smile and slaps Oswald on the back, making him pitch slightly forward. “Gabe had money on it being at least another couple of months.”

“Zsasz?”

“Hmm?”

“Just go.”

“Right-o.”

Oswald always leaves by a different way he arrived, Zsasz scouting ahead first to make sure no one’s waiting to ambush him, and then walks to the next street over where his driver has the car already running ready for him.

He leans back into the leather and breathes in deeply, an uncomfortable combination of anger and pain still bubbling beneath the surface. He pops another two painkillers into his mouth, washing them down with the now warm water he’d left in the car. He’s restless, skin itchy with irritation. Maybe he _should_ have just put a bullet in that waste of oxygen. 

It’s only once he notices they’re approaching the GCPD that he’s struck with an idea. He knocks on the partition.

“Pull over, would you?” he asks his driver. “I want to pay a friend a visit.”

It takes him a little longer than usual to wrench himself from the car, immediately leaning heavily on his cane as soon as his feet hit the pavement, but the pain’s more than worth it when the precinct goes quiet as he walks through the entrance, heads swivelling his way briefly then back to their work as they nervously try to avoid eye contact. One officer who has clearly drawn the short straw tentatively approaches him.

“Mayor Cobblepot, a pleasure as always, Sir. What can we do for you today?” Young. Too young, perhaps. Nervous because of his title and what it represents instead of his reputation, his _history_. It’s almost kind of cute.

“Is Detective Gordon about?” He asks politely, trying to pick Jim out amongst the badly fitting suits and frowning faces.

Just as the officer’s about to answer, he sees Jim coming down the stairs, a butterfly stitch haphazardly slapped over one eyebrow and a bruise already turning slightly green across his jaw. Can never stay out of trouble, that one.

“Jim!” Oswald calls out just as he hops off the last step.

Jim goes visibly rigid at his voice and pinches the bridge of his nose when he sees him. “Oh for the love of…”

He grudgingly makes his way over to Oswald, nodding at the young officer who happily scurries away, now knowing better than to take any initiative the next time someone important strolls into the department. 

The old swooping feeling that used to blindside him when faced with Jim Gordon, as if missing a step and only realising at the very last second, is distinctly absent. Has been for a while, now.

“What are you doing here?” Jim asks, already frowning in suspicion.

“And hello to you, too. I couldn’t help but notice I have yet to receive any congratulations on my engagement from the GCPD,” Oswald says jovially, already enjoying the familiar thrill of goading his old friend. “Which, as the Mayor of this fine city, is just a tad hurtful, if I’m being completely honest,” he adds, hand over his heart.

“Think we’re all still a little bit stunned.”

“Fair, fair. It was a bit out of the blue, wasn’t it?” he says with a laugh. “But such is love! Still. After all we’ve been through; a call would have been nice.”

“A call?” Jim echoes in disbelief.

“And as an old work colleague of Ed’s, too,” he says with a disapproving tsk. “Dreadful manners, Jim. Dreadful.”

Jim grits his teeth, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “You and Nygma,” he begins, looking Oswald over as if able to physically see the lie branded onto his clothes, his skin. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I know it’s something.”

“So suspicious, Jim,” Oswald admonishes, lips pursed into a mischievous smile.

“It’s kind of in the job description,” he throws back. “Look me in the eye and tell me this is legit.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Oswald,” he growls.

Oswald makes a point of looking him straight in the eyes, chin tilted up defiantly. “It is. And you don’t have to worry. I just assumed that as someone I still consider a friend for whatever ridiculous reason, I’d have your blessing. Or at least your support. I guess I was wrong. Good day.”

He swings around, angry at himself for thinking this would be a good idea, but a hand on his arm stops him from leaving.

“You deserve to be happy, Oswald. I mean that,” Jim allows, even though it looks as if it physically pains him to say so. “It’s just, I don’t know. It just all seems a little convenient.”

Oh. That hits a little too close to the truth for Oswald’s liking. He feels himself start to panic.

“He’s not,” Jim looks around and leans in close, his voice lowered. “He’s not forcing you into this, is he? Hurting you?”

Oswald blinks in utter bewilderment for a few moments before bursting into loud, unabashed laughter. A few intrigued gazes zero back on them, previous feigned disinterest momentarily forgotten. As he sees tips of Jim’s ears pink ever so slightly, it suddenly all comes rushing back to him; how he once felt about this man, how a small part of him, buried deeply away, still feels. This is why he keeps pushing. _This_ is why he stopped the car.

“I love him. Truly.” And wow, saying it out loud really is something. Liberating, even. Especially in front of Jim. “This, _he_ , is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Jim lets go in stages, fingers loosening fractionally then entirely, and runs a hand through his hair. “Christ,” he says with a huff of laughter that’s more bemusement than amusement. “I think I actually believe you.”

Oswald warms. “You’re, naturally, invited to the wedding, of course. Bring Bullock if you must.”

Jim allows himself a crooked smile at that, his face instantly morphing into something more boyish as the taut, worried lines smooth over before Oswald’s very eyes. “Oh yeah, Harvey wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, though. Both of you.”

“Oh, Jim,” he croons. He jerks his cane up through his fist so he’s holding it around halfway down instead and pats Jim lightly on the cheek with the handle. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Jim pushes it away and rolls his eyes. “I’ll make sure the GCPD sends some flowers to make up for our, what was it? _Dreadful manners_.”

Oswald pulls a face and pictures the greenhouse his home is slowly turning into. “God, no. That really isn’t necessary.”

And as he sees a wicked grin slowly spread itself across Jim’s lips, he knows he just condemned himself to another hideous bouquet. 

Bastard.


	4. Chapter 4

In what continues to be a surprise to almost everyone, Oswald genuinely enjoys his Mayoral duties.

Whether it’s presenting someone with an award for their critically acclaimed book or snipping away a taut red ribbon with an oversized pair of scissors to officially open a much needed youth centre, Oswald relishes it all. He likely has Ed to thank for that. After all, had he bought the election, he probably wouldn’t have the same regard for Gotham’s citizens that he has now. No, he wants to meet them, to honour them, do _whatever he can for them_. Because they’re the ones that had faith in him. Which is something that still makes him need to sit down for a couple of minutes so he can collect himself, the wonder and gratitude and pure astonishment almost overwhelming.

Ed often comes with him in a professional capacity; to make sure they’re running to schedule, to point him in the direction of whoever he’s meant to shake the hand of or take a photo with. That sort of thing. But with the nature of their relationship having shifted in the eyes of the public, Ed suddenly has double the responsibility. He is now officially Oswald’s date to events that require a plus one. Events like tonight’s charity night.

Oswald’s fixing his tie in the mirror, watching Ed in its reflection as he fastens his cufflinks. He looks ever so slightly different than usual. Hair with a barely there wave, reminiscent of the Ed he knew before Arkham, and a thin green jumper under his blazer instead of his customary waistcoat. Oswald’s of the opinion that Ed looks good in anything he wears, but seeing him like this, vulnerable almost, warms him. He wears the costume of husband-to-be just as well as he wears any of his others, all tweaked to perfection so he can slip in and out of them with ease.

Assuming his stilted, distracted movements are him fumbling with his tie, Ed makes his way over and bats Oswald’s hands away so he can fix it himself. He unties what Oswald has already done, which was actually perfectly fine, and expertly secures the knot up against the collar just under Oswald’s Adam’s apple.

“You cut a fine figure, as usual,” Ed compliments as he smooths down the shoulders of his suit.

“Likewise,” Oswald throws back at him, earning a pleased smile in return.

The charity events in Gotham are usually held by those with more money than they know what to do with; the sort of people that turn to charity work to elevate their boredom rather than any real, sincere want to make a difference. The food and alcohol on offer normally make up for the mind numbingly tedious conversation and it’s gratifying to know that, despite the less than honourable intentions, the money raised does eventually get to the people who need it. So, Oswald _tolerates_.

Tonight’s an anomaly in that respect as it’s being hosted by a Gotham City councilmember that Oswald actually genuinely quite likes. He’s not as much of an ass kisser as many of others, tells it like it is without sugar-coating any of the messy details, which is something Oswald appreciates. He also carries hard boiled sweets around with him and only ever shares them with Oswald. Which _may_ have been what originally endeared him to Oswald in the first place but no one needs to know that.

The mansion he shares with his wife is bigger than the van Dahl estate, but newer, built on the echoes of childhood dreams that perpetuate the mantra of the bigger, the better. The sort of place that probably has a personal cinema rather than a library. It’s not to Oswald’s tastes but he gets the satisfaction in finally being able to have something you’ve always desired.

“If you need saving, just make the signal and I’ll come whisk you away,” Ed says as they crunch their way up the gravel drive towards the white-fronted mansion.

The use of signals is something Ed suggested only a few days into their working relationship. What with both of them prone to losing their temper when confronted with the wrong sort of person, a way of warning the other that they were about to snap was necessary. Something that could be easily interpreted as a personal quirk or tic and dropped naturally into a conversation if things started going south. The system has worked well thus far, Oswald having managed to intervene before Ed could stab a man in the eye with his pocket pen whom felt it necessary to give Ed pointers on how to do his job. As entertaining as it would have been, there were too many witnesses, and the man in question also too important to leave writhing in pain at Ed’s feet.

Once closer, Oswald tips his head back to take in as much of the mansion as possible. Every visible window is glowing with golden light, making it seem homely and welcoming despite its size. Shadows pass by, momentarily dimming the brightness to something duller, before illuminating brilliantly once more. It’s as if the building’s alive.

Warmth hits them like a particularly well aimed punch to the face when they’re bustled into the foyer. Ed slips Oswald’s overcoat off his shoulders before heading towards the nearest attendant whose mouth moulds around a polite _‘yes sir, of course, sir’_ that Oswald can’t quite hear.

“Shall we?” he says once he’s back by Oswald’s side, offering his arm. Oswald nestles his hand comfortably in the crook of Ed’s elbow, stomach swooping in delight.

As they cross over the threshold into the main ballroom, they’re immediately accosted by a young woman with a camera and smoothly fall into their usual poses. Ed’s hand firmly pressed into the small of Oswald’s back, Oswald’s resting on Ed’s hip. She thanks them and scuttles away, throwing a distracted _‘enjoy your evening!’_ over her shoulder as she goes.

“Kind of weird being here without a job to do,” Ed says as he takes in the room. His hands twitch at his sides, unsure what to do without a clip board or pile of files to occupy them.

“Just try to enjoy it,” Oswald soothes, not used to seeing this side of Ed too often anymore but inwardly glad he’s the only one still granted that luxury.

“Right,” Ed agrees with a nod. He swallows. “I can do that.”

There’s a certain level of feigned respectability to these sorts of events that Oswald finds intensely interesting to dissect. A band plays soft music in the corner as laughter, some of it even genuine, flows between the notes, finding minuscule gaps of empty air to delicately situate itself. The gentle clink of thin crystal glasses against each other injects another level of depth, the perfect accompaniment. Out on the floor, waiters and waitresses expertly twirl their way around the guests, platters of hors d'oeuvres held high on fingertips, forced smiles slowly making their cheeks ache. Oswald should hate it, but because of what it represents, what being here and being _part_ of it means, well, he just can’t quite bring himself to.

They make the rounds; enquiring after children, wondering what their plans for Christmas are, and gushing over how well they look. It’s tedious, but necessary. Many are interested in Ed in a way they never were before and Oswald can’t help the spark of pride that nestles comfortably next to his heart at seeing him get the recognition he deserves.

After the second time circling the room they finally bump into their hosts.

“Oswald,” an older, portly gentleman warmly greets him, immediately engulfing him in a hug that smells of too much cologne attempting to disguise cigar smoke. “So glad you could make it.”

Oswald lets himself enjoy it for a couple of seconds, feeling more at ease now that he’s with someone he actually somewhat respects. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Frederick,” he replies sincerely. “Your charity nights are the toast of Gotham, after all.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” he dismisses with a smile that betrays just how flattered he is to hear that. “It’s good to see you too, Edward. Though I suspect you’re off the clock tonight, considering recent developments.”

Ed laughs and ducks his head in faux embarrassment, impressively slipping into his act of unassuming fiancé. Oswald barely restrains a smirk. “That’s right,” he agrees and politely holds out his hand.

Frederick very pointedly ignores it and pulls Ed into a hug much like the one he’d just bestowed on Oswald instead. Ed’s glasses slip down his nose at the sudden force of being yanked forward, eventually landing crooked. “Wonderful. You’re always welcome, of course.”

Ed looks flustered when he pulls back and this time Oswald can’t quite tell if it’s real or part of his act.

Next to Frederick is an elegant looking woman with white hair delicately pinned up in curls high on top of her head and a slightly shimmery dress that flatters her mature figure.

“Edward, this is my wife, Margery,” Frederick introduces proudly, his chest visibly puffing up like a little fat robin fluffing up its red breast, the buttons on his waistcoat dangerously close to popping at the strain. “I don’t believe you’ve had to chance to meet yet.”

“A pleasure,” he says and kisses her on each cheek.

Where Frederick is large and imposing, Margery appears as if a gentle breeze could knock her over. But look a little closer and you see that her eyes are bright with mischief, betraying a spark that suggests she’s probably tougher than she seems.

“Edward, you _must_ come meet the girls. We’ve been dying to get our hands on you,” she urges.

Oswald stifles a laugh at the brief deer in headlights expression that flickers onto his face before it quickly disappears once more, squirrelled away under lock and key.

Ed dramatically sweeps his arm out in front of him and bows deeply, immediately endearing himself to her even more so if the delighted little smile that dances across her lips is anything to go by. “Then please, lead the way.”

She latches onto his arm and all but drags him in the direction of a group of similarly older yet fashionable ladies that have captured a young waiter whose attempts to get away remain unsuccessful as they continue to quite literally block his path.

“That poor boy doesn’t know what he’s in for,” Frederick booms with amusement and a fond shake of his head. “Come, Oswald. I want to pick your brain about my road resurfacing proposal.”

Oswald cranes his neck around just in time to see Ed doing the same and they share a sympathetic smile.

* * *

Oswald eventually manages to prise himself away from Frederick after promising to meet for lunch next weekend and immediately swipes a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter once he's blessedly free. He takes a sip and relishes the feel of bubbles exploding over his tongue, instantly relaxing. As much as he likes Frederick, the man’s company can be tiring; generous with his time but in turn willing to unapologetically monopolise much of yours. He doesn’t do it out of any real sense of ego, he just has a lot to say. Too much, sometimes, Oswald thinks with a grimace.

Over by the bar, Ed’s still occupied, five little women surrounding him as he nods along to whatever they’re saying. It makes for an amusing sight, him towering over them as they all look up adoringly. He catches Oswald’s eye and gives a little wave, nothing more than a quick wiggle of his fingers, really. A few of the women turn round to see who Ed’s waving to, their faces lighting up upon seeing it’s Oswald, tittering in delight behind bony hands dotted with age spots.

Having not given his signal, Oswald decides it’s probably safe to leave him a little longer and drifts over to the silent auction instead. He’s happy to note it’s to raise money for a local homeless shelter, one he had been given a tour of a few weeks back and that very obviously needed some investment.

He browses the donations; an evening at the theatre with a four-course meal afterwards, wine tasting at a five star rated vineyard just outside of the city, a private concert by a local jazz artist well on her way to a platinum selling record. None particularly strike his fancy until he comes to a luxury holiday break.

He picks a pen from the nearby pot and lets it hover over the paper as he considers what would be an adequate amount. A couple of thousand, maybe? More? He’s never been abroad. Never had the opportunity or desire.

“Interested in the trip to Paris, Mr. Mayor?” an accented voice says from behind him.

He jumps slightly, almost losing grip on the pen entirely as his fingers momentarily loosen in surprise, and leaves a squiggly line against the stark white. He scowls down at it before turning to the owner of the voice, an annoyed retort on the tip of his tongue.

He immediately swallows it back down.

The man in front of him is classically handsome. Deep brown eyes with a slightly stubbled jaw and dirty blond hair parted to the side but slicked back off his face. Shorter than Ed, but taller than him, meaning he still has to cock his head up slightly. Probably all muscle under his form fitting suit.

“Y-yes, perhaps,” he stutters and mentally berates himself for falling into old habits that should be a thing of the past, buried away with bitter inadequacy and stinging envy. “I’ve never been.”

“Now that _is_ a travesty,” the man adds and juts his hip out to lean it against the table, arms crossed in a way that makes his suit jacket pull across his biceps enticingly. “Everyone should get to experience the city of love at least once."

“And have you?” Oswald asks, genuine interest overriding any lingering discomfort. A first-hand opinion would be useful before deciding to part with any of his money.

“A few times, with a few different people. It is just a hop, skip and a jump across the channel, after all,” he shares dismissively, waving away the memories like an annoying fly buzzing round his head. “The relationships all seemed to end soon afterwards, however.”

So much for the city of love, Oswald thinks. “Ever consider that may have more to do with you than Paris?” He says with probably more condescension than necessary.

A couple silent seconds tick by before he suddenly throws his head back and laughs loudly, supporting himself against Oswald’s shoulder as he does. Oswald looks on in bemusement, having expected a sneer or red-faced embarrassment.

“You may be right!” He agrees and slides his hand from where he’d reached out to clutch at Oswald in mirth down to his forearm. He keeps it there for just a touch longer than necessary, the heat from his palm slowly seeping through the fabric. “The resulting heartbreak was worth it, though. It’s a stunning city. And this coming from a Londoner.”

Well, that’s that settled, then. He’ll definitely put a bid in. Maybe pitch it as a business trip, or a treat for all of Ed’s hard work. It could replace the honeymoon they’re unlikely to have. He turns half-way back to the listing.

“I voted for you, you know,” the man shares and Oswald grits his teeth, pivoting back around. “It’s a relief to know Gotham’s finally in safe hands.”

“Thank you,” Oswald replies distractedly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Would you like another drink?” he offers and nods at the empty glass Oswald had forgotten he was even holding.

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, thank you,” Oswald eagerly agrees in an attempt to rid himself of him.

The man steps closer and slides his fingers over Oswald’s where they’re wrapped around the delicate stem of the glass. A combination of minty breath and sharp metal overloads Oswald’s senses, making him think of the sterile corridors of a hospital. Or an armoury. Oswald leans back a fraction.

“Be back in a minute, don’t go anywhere,” he says, voice lowered.

Oswald watches him go, brow scrunched up in a frown, and shakes his head. He turns back to the silent auction.

“How blatant can you be?”

He throws down the pen and spins around, throwing out his arms to either side of him, blocking the listing from view. The table wobbles, the lovingly placed floral centrepiece swaying with it as the pens jangle noisily inside their pot.

“Ed!” he comes very close to squeaking. “What’s wrong?”

“That _boy_ ,” Ed spits. A strand of hair has come loose to flop down endearingly over his forehead. It lifts slightly with each breath, hovering in the air briefly before floating back down. Oswald eyes it distractedly. “Has he been living under a rock?”

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“You’re kidding,” he says through a light chuckle, a chuckle that instantly dries up with a short inhale when he sees Oswald’s blank face. “You’re not kidding. He was clearly flirting with you. Even I could see that.”

Oswald feels his face prickle with heat. “Don’t be silly,” he admonishes lightly, unsure whether to feel flattered or annoyed he hadn’t noticed.

“It was text-book,” Ed explains through clenched teeth, the chords in his neck standing out. “Unnecessary touching, laughing way too loudly, the-the _flexing_.” 

He self-consciously skims a hand down his own arm before realising what he’s doing and stuffing his hands under his armpits, the tips of his ears turning red. 

“Wonder if he’s a journalist,” Ed considers in a mumble. “Maybe he’s trying to get a story, dig up some dirt. Or create it.”

Oswald feels dread claw its way up his throat, pushing down any stray threads of flattery. “Is that,” he starts before swallowing thickly, mouth suddenly dry. “Is that something we have to worry about, do you think?”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He really would be lost without Ed.

“You’re powerful and in a seemingly committed relationship,” Ed says simply. “Exposing you as a cheat? Perfect way to dethrone you, at least as Mayor. Uncomplicated.”

“I would _never_ cheat on you,” Oswald insists hotly before he can stop himself.

Ed stares at him in surprise, mouth left hanging open in a ‘o’.

“I, uh," Oswald stammers, eyes wide. "What I mean is, well—"

"It's okay," Ed interrupts softly, a pleased little smile quirking his lips up attractively. Oswald flushes at the sight of it. "I appreciate that, Oswald. Thank you."

Oswald looks away and clears his throat. "I suppose you’re done meeting the girls, then?” He eventually says, eager to change the subject.

“Those women are incredible,” Ed gushes, pushing up his glasses like he often does when he’s excited. “The dirt they have on everyone in this room is genuinely impressive.”

He winds an arm around Oswald’s shoulders, pulls him in close so he’s speaking directly into his ear and points to a man near the buffet table on the other side of the room.

“He’s having an affair,” he whispers and Oswald barely restrains a shiver. “Everyone assumes it’s with the blond 20-something nanny, but it’s actually with the very male, very hairy gardener a year away from retirement. They sneak off to his shed at 11:00 pm on the dot every night.”

Oswald snorts inelegantly. Encouraged, Ed continues.

“See her by the large potted plant? Tells anyone willing to listen that she lost weight because of some ridiculous lychee diet she picked up whilst travelling through Asia. She’s actually on her third tummy tuck and up to her eyeballs in debt.”

Oswald muffles a giggle behind his hand.

“And _those_ two,” he groans as he gestures to an elderly couple, both bent at the waist by age, movements slow and considered. “I’ve got two words for you: sex dungeon.”

“Oh, God, Ed,” Oswald gasps between laughs, unable to catch his breath. He pushes his face into Ed’s shoulder to muffle himself as a few curious gazes attempt to seek out the noise. “No, stop.”

With their heads bowed close together, giggling like school children, Oswald feels loose-limbed and light headed; as if he’s already well into a second bottle of wine.

“And how much of all that is actually true?” He asks, looking up at Ed through his eyelashes.

“I am shocked and appalled you’d suggest that the whisperings of a bunch of bored socialites well passed retirement age is nothing more than gossip,” Ed admonishes with a grin. “But honestly? Those women would put even you to shame with the sheer wealth of contacts they have. Sandy has invited me to their book club next month. I’m tempted purely from an information gathering angle. Could prove useful.”

“Sandy?” Oswald repeats teasingly with a smile.

Ed rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment and ducks his head. Another loose strand joins the first. It’s really rather fetching. “Wife to the Dean of Gotham University.”

“Oh, _Cassandra_.”

“Shut up,” he says with a laugh and pokes a finger into Oswald’s side, digging between two ribs. Oswald squirms in his hold and playfully attempts to push him away without much success.

“Here’s your drink, Mr. Mayor,” a voice interrupts and Ed’s amused expression instantly morphs into something sharper. Deadlier. “Sorry it took a little longer than I thought, got caught up talking to a colleague.”

Ed presses Oswald closer to his side in a way that can only be described as possessive and looks down his nose at the man from before. “And you are?” he says icily.

“Evan,” he replies, seemingly unconcerned with the less than warm reception. “Evan Grant.”

Ed swipes the glass from Evan’s hand causing a shadow of annoyance to flicker across his face, briefly darkening his handsome features.

“You mentioned a colleague. What is it you do, exactly?”

Evan takes a sip from his own newly refilled glass. “Contractor,” he says vaguely.

Oswald can only imagine the thousands upon thousands of different ways to kill and dispose of a body that are no doubt flitting through Ed’s wonderful mind. Each one carefully considered for ease, enjoyment and success, then either discarded or stored away for later.

“And why, pray tell, is a contractor at an event that includes the Mayor, CEOs, press, and councilmembers, hmm?” Ed presses through gritted teeth.

Evan laughs, once again throwing his head back dramatically, but there's a tinge of something else to it this time. Something like condescension. "A city doesn't just spring out of thin air, Mr. Nygma. I have been fortunate enough be involved with a great deal of Gotham's most recent development and, by extension, many of its rich and powerful. I am thus, exactly where I should be. And as for that... _unfortunate_ dose of elitism, are there not librarians, nurses, and teachers here also? Or do they not count due to _only_ being the wives of said CEOs and councilmembers?" 

Ed's eyes are dark and manic and God, Oswald wishes he could let him just do what he wants, consequences be damned. Unfortunately, he can’t. "How dare—"

“Ed,” Oswald softly placates and pats him on the arm, hoping his touch reins him back in from the brink. “I’m so sorry,” he directs to Evan half-heartedly, attempting to retain some semblance of respectability. They do have an image to uphold, after all.

“Not at all,” he says, smile with a shark-like edge to it; too many teeth, too wide. Vicious. “Lovely meeting you, Mr. Mayor. It’s been… _illuminating_.”

Oswald frowns and steps forward as if to follow or grab a hold of him or _something_. Anything. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” He demands at the retreating back before it’s eventually swallowed up by the sea of guests.

Oswald stamps his foot in anger, fist clenched painfully round his cane. “I think you may have been right.”

“I often am,” Ed says and sniffs at the glass. He wrinkles his nose and pours it into a nearby potted plant just to be safe.

“I’ll go tell Fred, let him know there’s a—”

“Eddie?” A high, feminine voice calls out over the chatter and Ed immediately goes from calculating to uncomfortable in the blink of an eye. It’s a fascinating transformation to witness, body straightening as if in preparing for an attack.

“Oh, dear.”

Oswald stands on his tiptoes to see Margery weaving her way through the crowd, her curls bobbing up and down as she turns her head in every which way looking for Ed. He drops back down onto his feet, eyebrows raised.

“I thought you said they were, and I quote, incredible.”

“Yes, _in small doses_ ,” he hisses and crowds against Oswald as if trying to disappear into him. His backside hits the table and he fists the front of Ed’s jumper to keep himself upright. It’s utterly ridiculous but Oswald finds himself charmed. It also means he gets to play the white knight.

“I suppose I could use some air,” Oswald allows, meeting Ed’s eyes with a smirk.

The resulting smile tells him it was the right thing to say and, sliding his hand into Oswald’s, Ed begins to tug him gently but firmly away. 

Oswald lets himself be pulled for a few steps, the warmth of Ed’s hand in his a pleasant momentary distraction he’s more than happy to indulge in, before his mind jolts itself back into life and he wrenches away.

“Wait, wait,” Oswald urges.

He hobbles back over to the table, quickly scanning the listings again to find the right one, and scribbles an amount under the Paris trip. He nods to himself in satisfaction and, in a split second of bravery that he’ll find himself replaying over and over again later that night, he links their hands back together. “Okay, let’s go.”

* * *

They run through the mansion, the slap of their heeled shoes echoing loudly in the largely empty space. Ed’s not going as fast as he could, mindful of Oswald’s leg, but Oswald finds himself enjoying the feigned urgency. It’s like they’re fleeing a crime scene, Jim hot on their trail, and not simply trying to avoid a bunch of harmless old ladies. The utter absurdity of the situation startles a bark of laughter out of him; one Ed immediately matches as if he was thinking the same thing.

They eventually reach a room with a grand piano sitting proudly in the middle. Behind it, framed by long white curtains on either side, is a pair of ornate French doors that look out onto an expansive garden. When Ed pushes them open, the curtains billow dramatically inwards, bringing with them the cold night air that already has Oswald’s knee preemptively aching.

Outside, impressive marble lions guard the steps that lead down onto the grass. Oswald smooths a hand over one as they pass, dipping his fingers into the curves that make up its mane and then down its spine to its tail. At the bottom, his cane sinks down into the damp impeccably maintained lawn, the end noticeably muddy and wet when he pulls it back out. He reaches out towards Ed for extra support, finding him already close enough to easily grab onto. 

They eventually settle down on a stone bench under an archway made of ivy in a secluded corner. The cold of the stone slowly seeps through his trousers, freezing the backs of his thighs, so he shuffles an inch closer to Ed for warmth. Oswald can see his breath curl out from his mouth in delicate ghostly wisps against the darkness and he attempts to blow a ring, eyes crossed in concentration.

“Tonight’s been fun,” Ed says out of the blue. He sounds confused by the fact.

“I’d put that down to the company more than anything,” Oswald chirps, pressing his shoulder against Ed’s companionably. Ed quirks a small smile at that but doesn’t look his way.

Discouraged, he focuses on trying to generate some heat to warm his rapidly freezing fingers instead and begins to rub his hands together. He misses wearing gloves but the unsightly bulge his ring causes just isn’t worth it. Unfortunately, as someone who’s always been particularly susceptible to the cold, that means he’s stuck with a permanent chill he just can’t quite shift.

Without warning, Ed places a hand over Oswald’s, effectively halting his attempts to warm up. Oswald looks up at him questioningly, but Ed simply turns to him, their knees knocking together as he does so, and Ed cups Oswald’s hands between his own and raises them to his mouth. 

Oswald inhales sharply at the first brush of Ed’s lips against his fingers as he blows hot air over them.

They slowly but surely thaw out, yet Ed keeps them clasped between his own, and instead lowers them to his lap. He traces the embroidered umbrella decorating Oswald’s cuff, a bittersweet memory from his stint at running _Oswald’s_.

“Do you miss it?”

“I miss what it could have been,” Oswald admits candidly, too focused on watching Ed’s index finger slowly follow the purple stitching, his nail catching ever so slightly on the raised purple stitching.

“The next place will be better,” Ed assures. “Bigger. Everything you’ve ever wanted.”

It’s a statement of fact rather than the sincere but ultimately hollow comfort from a friend with nothing more certain to offer.

“I believe you.”

Ed swallows. “I’m sorry about before,” he says. “With that man. You’re, of course, free to pursue relationships.”

That stings. It shouldn’t, but it does. Maybe because he assumes Ed is expecting him to say it back. Expecting him to offer the same gracious courtesy. Oswald hates him ever so slightly for that. For being the better person.

“I just had a bad feeling about him, that’s all,” Ed continues and thumbs at Oswald’s engagement ring absentmindedly, circling the amethyst. “Something seemed… off. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t genuinely interested. Or that I was wrong.”

“He wasn’t my type anyway,” Oswald admits.

Ed scoffs. “What, ridiculously attractive?”

“I was going to say boring,” Oswald offers. “Pedestrian. _Dull_.”

“Looked ex-Military, to me,” Ed throws in with a weak smile.

Oswald screws up his nose and fakes a gagging sound, tongue stuck out like a child. Ed snorts in amusement and finally releases Oswald’s hands. He immediately misses feel of Ed’s long fingers curled protectively round his, innocent yet intimate all at once.

Ed leans back into his hands and tips his head back. “How do you feel about you and I cutting this night a little short and picking up a Chinese?” He asks.

Oswald looks at his cold-pinked cheeks and messy hair. The curve of his throat. The glint of light off his glasses. He swallows. “I think that’s the best offer I’ve had all night.”

The warmth of the mansion after being out in the biting night air is a welcome relief and they both take a moment to enjoy it before heading back into the main ballroom where most of the guests are.

They quickly spot Frederick on the other side of the room as he dabs a handkerchief over his sweaty, blotchy face before slipping a hip flask out of his blazer’s inner breast pocket and taking a sneaky mouthful.

“Marge has been looking for you, Edward,” Frederick says when they approach him. He offers the flask to Oswald who politely declines. He’s never been a huge fan of his taste in alcohol.

“Please tell her we’re sorry but we’re going to take off,” Oswald says as genuinely apologetic as he can manage. “Think I may be coming down with something.”

Frederick pushes a hand under Oswald’s fringe, his palm covering almost the entirety of Oswald’s forehead, and clucks his tongue. “You do feel a bit warm,” he agrees. “You’re more than welcome to find a room and have a bit of a lie down.”

“That’s most kind of you, Frederick,” Ed pipes up. “But I’d rather get him home.”

They had picked up their coats from the cloakroom on the way back in, hoping that seeing them all wrapped up and ready to go would make Frederick more amenable to the idea of them leaving earlier than usual. It seems to have worked.

He nods in understanding. “Of course. Take it easy, Os. And don’t forget about our lunch date next weekend."

“As if I could.”

“Look after him,” Frederick directs to Ed.

“I intend to.”

He slaps Ed on the back, pitching him forward. “Good man.”

Once they’re back in the limo, their driver cranks up the heating. Oswald sinks into the plush leather and straightens his leg out in front of him with a happy sigh, the rigid formality he forces himself to adopt when on official business draining blissfully away. He feels his eyelids start to droop and finds himself without much energy to stop them.

A warm hand envelops his bad knee. “It’s okay, get some rest.”

He’s jolted awake sometime later by the car door being pulled shut as Ed gets back in with two bags full of food. He holds them up for Oswald to see, the plastic rustling as he shakes them for emphasis.

“Got our usual.”

Oswald sits up with a yawn and feels something slip down into his lap from where it had been tucked under his chin. Ed’s jacket lies pooled round him. Touched, Oswald smiles up at him, expression sleep-softened and open in a way very few people have ever had the opportunity to see.

“Thank you, Ed.”

Ed unpacks all the containers, handing Oswald his and keeping back what isn’t to pile up next to him. Before long, every available surface is covered with fantastic smelling food. Seats, floor, laps and knees; there’s barely room to move. Oswald watches in amusement as Ed methodically picks out all the onion from his chow mein, a look of such concentration on his face, it’s as if he’s unravelling a particularly tricky puzzle. Sensing he’s being watched, Ed looks up.

“What’s wrong?” he mumbles through a mouthful of noodles. There’s a smear of sauce on his chin that Oswald wishes he had the courage to wipe away. Maybe one day.

Oswald shakes his head, feeling for the first time ever completely content. “Nothing.”


	5. Chapter 5

As much as he had loved it, _Oswald’s_ was never truly his. Not really. Gifted to him because he sold Fish out and then taken away just as quickly. Looking back, he barely even had the time to enjoy it before it was cruelly prised from his grasp; too focused on immaturely getting rid of all traces of Fish to just sit back and take it all in, spite foolishly clouding his judgement. But what it had done was plant a deep seed of want, leaving him with an ache that alcohol couldn’t dull and a hole that bloodshed couldn’t fill. He knows now that _Oswald’s_ was merely a glimmer of what he could have given time. A time that came sooner than he ever expected thanks to Ed.

He’d actually told Ed about his desire to open a new club a few weeks before that morning at breakfast where he left Oswald’s world tilting precariously on its axis. Over a vintage bottle of wine, in front of the fire, he spilled his heart; his wants, his fears, his _anger_. Ed listened with rapt attention, chiming in softly only when necessary. No one had cared enough to listen before and Oswald went to bed that night feeling lighter than he had in a long, long time. The next day Ed was already researching available empty buildings all over the city with a single-minded determination that took Oswald aback. In hindsight, that may have been when he started to fall for him in earnest, that nonsense with Butch only strengthening feelings that had already taken root.

Of course, that had all been put on the back burner whilst they reorganised their priorities. Namely conning the entire city into thinking their relationship was real and not just for political security. Which, incidentally, Oswald is agonisingly, heartbreakingly slowly coming to accept. He’d almost be proud of himself if it didn’t hurt so much. But now, _finally_ , they’re moving forward once more.

They meet up with their estate agent at 9 O’clock in the morning, ready for a full day of club hunting. He’s a nervous looking man, desperately trying to cover a rather large bald spot with a disastrous comb over without much success.

“Jack Buttler. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cobblepot, er, I mean _Mayor_ Cobblepot.”

He absentmindedly wipes his palm against his trouser leg before holding it for Oswald to shake.

Oswald looks down at it blankly before turning Ed.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

Cringing, he takes the man’s hand in his.

“Likewise,” he manages to force out.

Jack pumps his hand vigorously, jerking Oswald’s arm awkwardly up and down to the point where Oswald’s worried he may yank it out of the socket completely. “And thank you again, Mr. Nygma, for requesting me personally.”

Oswald raises an eyebrow at that as he subtly slips his hand free, but Ed merely pushes his glasses up his nose and gives a bland smile. “Well, like I said before, Jack, your portfolio speaks for itself.”

Jack stands a little straighter at the praise, almost succeeding in looking somewhat professional for the first time since introducing himself. “Let’s get moving then,” he says with annoyingly grating cheer. “I’ve got some great units to show you.”

* * *

In hindsight, that may as well have been his death sentence, because after being shown three frankly ghastly places, Oswald’s losing the will to live. 

The smell of mould and piss clings to his fur trimmed coat like glue, refusing to shift even after they’ve moved on. Why on Earth their estate agent insisted on showing them a place that would give The Stacked Deck a run for its money, he has no idea. As if Oswald would even _consider_ opening his club in an area where his clientele would be relegated to low level gang members and petty thieves. After Oswald stormed out, he’d even tentatively suggested a place in The East End. The East End! Oswald put his foot down, of course, refusing to even go near it.

Back in the car, Ed puts a hand on his shoulder, sympathetic and apologetic all at once. A tight knot of bitter frustration has lodged itself in the back of his throat and stops him from replying with the empty _‘I’m fine, Ed. No need to worry’_ he otherwise would. It’s probably for the best. He’s so close to letting his emotions get the best of him; teetering on the edge of screaming or saying something vicious that he’ll come to regret later. Why can’t anything go right?

He’s about to give in and childishly demand to be driven home when he realises where they are. Shifting closer to the window, he notices they’re passing through into the outskirts of The Diamond District. He watches with interest as the familiar overt glitz and glamour peters out into a more understated wealth. Oswald swallows back down his demand and side-eyes Ed next to him in curiosity.

It isn’t long before they arrive at their destination.

_Clean_ is what immediately comes to mind when Ed helps him out of the car and onto the clearly recently repaved sidewalk; no old gum ground into the surface or cigarette butts in sight, just an unblemished pale grey that would seem out of place in any other part of the city. Even the air feels fresher, pleasantly biting against his cheeks instead of heavy with exhaust fumes. He inhales greedily and the jagged edges of his earlier frustrations smooth over into something more manageable.

“Here we are,” Jack announces unnecessarily, arms opened wide as if to say _‘ta da!’_

Oswald rolls his eyes and brushes past him without a second glance.

It’s an interesting looking building; the outside at odds with the others surrounding it that have already been renovated and updated with sleek lines. Frankly, it sticks out like a sore thumb. But Oswald doesn’t entirely dislike that about it.

“I think you’ll find this one more fitting to your tastes,” Jack says as he bustles them through the double doors that make up the entrance. “There’s a fair bit of work that needs doing but I implore you to look beyond that and see its potential instead.”

They’re lead into a large foyer that has a stunning elevator with a wrought iron gate on one side and a twisting stair case that matches it in design on the other. Oswald cranes his head around, drinking in every little detail.

“Just wait until you see the rest of it,” Ed murmurs as he gently urges Oswald towards the main area with a familiar hand on the small of his back.

And _oh_.

Jack’s right about the amount of work that needs doing, it’s a total mess, but that hardly matters because what Oswald sees under a multitude of loose bricks, stained walls, and broken glass is a beautiful Art Deco club crying out in desperation to be restored to its once magnificent glory. He already sees echoes of it in every perfectly formed tile, every shattered mirror. Trapped, suspended in time, but there. It’s so _easy_ picture the beautifully delicate chandelier that must have hung from the high, high ceiling once upon a time; flappers dancing the night away in their short, shimmery dresses beneath it, as an intoxicating combination of cigarette smoke and flowery perfume drifts through the air.

He closes his eyes and mentally starts to decorate; pale blues and ice whites, a large sculpture as a centrepiece, or maybe even a fountain. Yes, definitely some sort of water feature, the sound of gently flowing water mixing pleasantly with the clink of glasses and soft music. A large, raised stage, fit for a full band and a whole troop of dancers.

An overwhelming sense of _right_ nestles close to his heart.

This is it. This is the one.

Their estate agent continues to drone on, pointing out features Oswald has already picked out and appraised with a keen eye. “There is a colony of bats in the rafters, but they shouldn’t be too hard to clear out,” he admits candidly, which does admittedly earn him a point in Oswald’s favour.

“You’ve fallen in love,” Ed says under his breath and Oswald’s freezes, spine snapping straight. “It’s a wonderful space. I can just picture you here,” he continues instead.

“O-oh,” he sighs with relief. “Yes.”

“I think we can get the price down a little, though,” he whispers and Oswald has to consciously stop a carefree giggle escaping from between his lips. It’s actually well within their agreed price range, but there’s no point in spending more than necessary. “His wife’s called Rachel, by the way.”

“Okay?” he says, grin morphing into a confused frown as Ed strides over to him, long legs carrying him there in the blink of an eye.

“How much is it again?” Ed asks, stopping Jack mid-spiel. 

“$3.2 million,” he replies eagerly as he rocks up onto the balls of his feet, clearly smelling a potential sale in the air. It’s the first time he’s resembled anything even close to an actual estate agent; shark-like and ready to pull the wool over your eyes.

Ed hums thoughtfully. “That seems a little inflated considering its _history _.”__

__Jack drops back down onto his heels, his previous excitement all but evaporating._ _

__“History?” he asks nervously._ _

__“You know, that whole unfortunate… cult situation,” Ed says. “Brain washing, torture, ritual sacrifice,” he flicks open his binder and licks both his thumb and forefinger to shift through the pages with ease. “Ah yes, and necrophilia. Lovely.”_ _

__It’s obvious what Ed’s doing. It’s what he does best, after all; manipulating those beneath him, _shaping_ them to his will._ _

__A thrill works its way up Oswald’s spine and he bites down hard on his bottom lip until he tastes the coppery tang of blood._ _

__Jack gulps and swipes the end of his tie across his forehead, collecting all the little beads of sweat that had sprung up along his hairline. “With all due respect, that was a long time ago, Mr. Nygma.”_ _

__Forcing down any obvious signs of amusement, Oswald leans into Ed’s side and gasps, immediately drawing both men’s attention to him._ _

__“And wasn’t this the area where those murders took place a few years ago?” He shares, making sure to add a slight wobble to his voice._ _

__“Murders…?” Jack repeats to himself and begins to urgently shift through his own mass of papers, frowning._ _

__Ed throws Oswald a pleased smile before quickly compressing it back down into faux concern. “You’re right,” Ed replies and shakes his head. “Terrible stuff.”_ _

__“I don’t remember there being—”_ _

__“Awful,” Oswald interrupts. “Those poor girls.”_ _

__Ed wraps an arm round his shoulders, slipping into the role of consoling fiancé seamlessly._ _

__“There, there,” he coos. “It’s all right, my dear. They caught him, didn’t they?”_ _

__Oswald has to smother a laugh into Ed’s coat. Fortunately, it sounds more like a choked off sob than anything even remotely resembling amusement and he feels Ed’s lips twitch from where they’re pressed into his hair._ _

__Jack makes an awkward, abortive move towards them before thinking better of it and deciding the stay where he is._ _

__“Look, I can go down to $2, but no more,” he concedes. “It’s already listed way under its value. A building of this age and in this area? Should be $4 plus.”_ _

__“That’s a shame,” Ed says, regret written across his face. As if it truly pained him it had come to this. “Especially if it meant your lovely wife had to see these.”_ _

__Letting Oswald go, he slips a thin stack of glossy paper from the back of the binder he’d been carrying around all day. He fans out five enlarged photos, each one showing their estate agent with a woman Oswald assumes is _not_ his wife. In one he’s even pushing a stroller, the same woman now heavily pregnant next to him with her hand tenderly resting over his on the handle._ _

__Jack makes a brave swipe for them but Ed is quicker and smoothly squirrels them away again._ _

__“You,” he splutters, face slowly turning red in either anger or embarrassment, Oswald’s not sure. Maybe an uncomfortable, charged mixture of them both. “You can’t do this.”_ _

__“Oh, I think you’ll find I can,” Ed says, tone dripping with condescension. “Now, drop it to $1.5 and these will magically disappear, never to see the light of day again. Poof!”_ _

__Jack looks to Oswald for what, hilariously, appears to be help, but Oswald turns away, suddenly interested in the grime under his fingernails instead. He gapes at the obvious dismissal, mouth opening and closing unattractively like a fishing gasping for air, his head swinging back between the two of them._ _

__“Just, just give me a minute to call my manager,” he eventually allows, fumbling with the buckle to his messenger bag, fingers uncooperative._ _

__A couple of pens and crumpled up sticky notes come tumbling out onto the floor when he finally gets it open, scattering around their feet as he roots around desperately. Oswald curls his lip in distaste, nudging a biro with a chewed lid away with his foot._ _

__“Of course, of course,” Ed says and takes out his own phone. “Your wife should be home from work about now, yes?”_ _

__Jack stops what he’s doing and looks at Ed with wide eyes, his face draining of colour before their very eyes._ _

__Unconcerned, Ed makes a show of slowly pressing down on each individual number, obviously giving the man time to change his mind. The beeps of the keypad are loud in the otherwise empty space, like a timer ticking down to a bomb blast. Oswald finds himself holding his breath._ _

__Ed gets down to the penultimate digit before Jack finally caves._ _

__“Fine! Fine,” he blurts, his hands raised as if ready to physically stop him if it ended up coming to that. “Just, please, don’t tell her."_ _

__Ed happily mimes zipping his lips closed._ _

__Jack nod shakily and opens his portfolio, the documents for the club printed on fresh white paper at the front. He swipes a pen off the ground and offers it to Oswald._ _

__“Please sign here, Mr. Mayor,” he says and Oswald raises his eyebrows. He looks at the documents being offered to him, shaking in the man’s hold, then back up to his face._ _

__“Around.”_ _

__“I don’t—”_ _

__“Turn around,” he reiterates and swirls his finger in the air._ _

__He spins round quickly as if shocked into it and Oswald rolls his eyes._ _

__“Give me the pen and documents first,” Oswald says with a sigh._ _

__Jack thrusts them into his hands and obediently turns back around, waiting patiently. Oswald smooths the papers against the man’s back, ridding it of the creases born from Jack’s clenched fists. Ed takes the opportunity to look over his shoulder and take a quick glance at the small print._ _

__“All good?”_ _

__“Looks fine to me. Pretty standard.”_ _

__Oswald nods and giddily signs his signature with a flourish on every page it’s needed._ _

__“Pleasure doing business with you,” Oswald says warmly and purposely leans in close enough to slide the pen behind Jack’s ear. He sees him swallow thickly at the proximity out the corner of his eye. His heart is probably jack rabbiting against his rib cage, Oswald thinks. He wishes he could hear it. “Please give Rachel our regards.”_ _

__Jack jerks violently away at his wife’s name and pushes a weighty set of keys into Oswald’s hands before scurrying away up the steps and out the door._ _

__As soon as he’s gone they both burst out laughing, Ed bent over double at the waist, Oswald leaning heavily on his cane for support._ _

__“His face,” Oswald manages to force out through his laughter._ _

__“I almost feel sorry for him,” Ed adds._ _

__Oswald gives him a pointed look._ _

__“What? I said _almost_.”_ _

__Oswald snorts and shakes his head._ _

__Unadulterated excitement bulldozes down any remaining restraint he’d been attempting to cling onto and he slumps against the bar in emotional exhaustion. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead and lets his eyes flutter shut, a grin straining at his cheeks._ _

__It’s all his. Every last inch of it is _his_._ _

__Ed leans against the bar next to him, only just close enough to brush Oswald with his jacket as he finds a comfortable position, but it’s enough to ground him._ _

__“Have you thought of a name yet?”_ _

__Oswald runs his fingers along the bar top, leaving a pristine, winding trail in the thick dust. Upon reaching the edge, he brings them up to his lips and blows away what he’s collected. The particles dance briefly in the air, twisting and turning, before dispersing entirely._ _

__“The Iceberg Lounge,” he shares eventually. It’s his first time saying the name out loud to anyone but himself. Always instead whispered under his breath in the dead of night, as if willing a place he could give the name to into existence. Like a wish or a prayer._ _

__“Fitting.” Ed offers his arm and Oswald happily settles his hand in the crook of his elbow. “Let me show you around.”_ _

__“Please do.”_ _

__“We can put in a stage over there,” Ed says, gesturing towards the far end of the room. “Which would leave this entire area free for tables and chairs.”_ _

__They go back out into the foyer and up the stairs to the second level, Ed sharing his ideas as they go. Oswald’s bewitched. By the building, by Ed. They’re intrinsically linked now, as far as Oswald’s concerned and the thought dampens any apprehension that had been worrying at the edges of this new found sense of purpose. It’s comforting to know that when they’re open, when the public comes spilling through his doors, wherever he looks, he’ll be able see Ed._ _

* * *

__Eventually, they end up back by the bar. “Obviously this will need to be bigger,” Ed says as he lays his hand on impeccably preserved marble top. “Perhaps extend what’s already here further along the wall.”_ _

__“Definitely,” Oswald adds somewhat uselessly._ _

__“Oh!” Ed suddenly says exclaims. “You’ve got to see this.”_ _

__Oswald watches with curiosity as Ed dances his fingers along the wall, pressing gently as he goes. It takes him a minute or so to find what he’s looking for, but when he does, he splays fingers wide and pushes down with the full width of his hand. There’s a click and the termite ridden panel opens a fraction as if on a spring. “Watch your step.”_ _

__Ed holds onto him securely as they make their way down solid stone steps into the dark and it starts to get noticeably colder the further they go._ _

__A door greets them at the bottom and Ed fishes out the set of keys Oswald had dropped into the pocket of his coat. He immediately selects the one he needs, as if having done it a million times before, and unlocks it._ _

__Behind the door is another room. It’s almost the same size as the main area, but not as decorative. As if made for a specific purpose._ _

__“It used to be a speakeasy,” Ed shares with obvious excitement. “This is one of three rooms behind false panels but it’s by far the largest. Perfect for any business that needs to be a little more… discreet. It also has a different exit. They all do.”_ _

__Unlike upstairs, there is no gorgeous marble floor. In fact, there isn’t a floor at all. Instead the earth has been unceremoniously churned up, damp from the dark and low temperatures. The overwhelming smell of somewhere that has been shut away and left to rot for years hangs heavy in the air. Oswald wrinkles his nose._ _

__“I apologise, I’m getting ahead of myself,” Ed says in a rush. “This is your project, after all.”_ _

__And it clicks._ _

__This is the smell he caught clinging to Ed’s clothes. Musty, earthy, and damp._ _

__“This is where you’ve been coming, isn’t it?” Oswald says softly in wonder._ _

__Ed runs a nervous hand through his hair, fingers momentarily getting caught in the gel-knotted strands. “I needed to make sure it was perfect. The right size, the right location. No _literal_ skeletons in the closet. The lack of floor was my doing, actually, for that very reason. Can’t have the GCPD come knocking for something out of our control and have them stumble upon what we’re actually getting up to.”_ _

__Which makes sense, Oswald knows that intellectually, but this? It’s all a bit too much._ _

__“Consider it my wedding gift to you,” Ed adds eventually, softer._ _

__Oswald pulls away from Ed, putting his back to him in the process, and sticks his fingers into his eyes to stem the incoming flood of tears. He’s hot all over despite the chill of the room and his chest is tight, like someone’s pushing down on it. Ed continues to have the remarkable ability to make him feel things he’s never felt before. Confusing, uncomfortable, _wonderful_ things._ _

__“Oswald?”_ _

__“I almost sent Gabe out to follow you a few times,” he admits shakily._ _

__“Huh,” Ed responds simply. “He did follow me once, I think.”_ _

__“What?” Oswald all-but shrieks, spinning back round to face Ed, furious._ _

__“No, I’m glad, it means he cares,” he assures him, hands held up placatingly. “And it was only once. He must have realised what I was doing and it put his mind at ease.”_ _

__Gabe’s always been a little overprotective but Ed’s right, he can’t fault him for that, not in his line of work, anyway._ _

__“Then why make me suffer through all those disgusting places first, though?” Oswald asks instead, unable to keep the slight whine out of his voice._ _

__“Had to make it dramatic,” he admits cheekily._ _

__And God, he really shouldn’t have expected anything less._ _

__Ed clears his throat and focuses his eyesight somewhere over Oswald’s shoulder. “I’ll notify the builders and interior designers once we’re home. Get them in here as soon as possible. A few will have to travel in from Metropolis but I’m sure we can make it worth their while.”_ _

__“Tell them they’ll have to work around the original features.”_ _

__“They’re already aware, Oswald,” Ed shares with a small, self-conscious smile. “It was part of my criteria when I was narrowing down the list.”_ _

__Oswald gives a bemused huff of laughter. “You were that convinced I’d want it?”_ _

__“Of course.”_ _

__“So modest,” he teases and Ed rolls his eyes, the tips of his ears clearly red even in the low-light. “Thank you, though. Not just for this. For everything.”_ _

__“It continues to be my absolute pleasure.”_ _

__Oswald shakes his head. “I mean it, Ed,” he insists with heat. “No one’s done _anything_ like this for me before. I don’t know what I can ever do to… repay…”_ _

__He trails off awkwardly as Ed steps in close, words fizzling away into nothing on his tongue. He cocks his head up in confusion, inhaling sharply when Ed raises a hand to his face. He holds his breath as Ed proceeds to swipe the pad of his thumb underneath Oswald’s right eye only for it to come back speckled with black. Oh, he completely forgot. He’s usually so _good_ about not rubbing his eyes, too. He flushes and tries to turn away, but Ed slides his fingers across Oswald’s cheek, curls them under his jaw, and gently holds him in place._ _

__“You deserve it, Oswald, and then some,” he says, so close Oswald can feel his breath against his lips. “I just ask of you one thing in return.”_ _

__“Anything,” Oswald whispers, then more firmly again, “ _anything_.”_ _

__He pulls Oswald against him and rests his cheek against his temple. Oswald melts into it and slips his arms under Ed’s overcoat to circle them round his waist. Ed’s always so _warm_._ _

__“Make this into the best damn club Gotham’s ever seen.”_ _


	6. Chapter 6

Contrary to popular belief, Oswald and Ed aren’t in each other’s company every minute of every day.

They try to at least share breakfast together and succeed most of the time, but occasionally Oswald needs a little bit longer in bed due to a bad night or Ed has to leave earlier than usual because he has a meeting on the other side of the city, so even then it can be a full day before they actually see each other. Sometimes it’s even longer than that; brief updates via phone their only mode of communication until their schedules finally line up once more. Lately, their time spent together has been edging more towards the latter.

Having been the driving force behind finding The Iceberg Lounge, it made sense to leave Ed in charge of overseeing its development. He already had a long, detailed list of people ready to transform the ravaged shell Oswald had fallen in love with into the club of his dreams. Each person handpicked by Ed himself after an in-depth vetting period where their qualifications, aspirations and backgrounds were all methodically dissected.

“I know more about the man installing the underground heating than I do about most people I’ve ever met,” Ed had tiredly joked one evening, plaster dust still caught in his hair after having come straight from the club, before promptly face-planting into the sofa asleep.

Oswald never thought he’d find himself in a position where _not_ seeing the most important person in his life regularly would be okay. You see, Oswald used to dream about having someone to come home to. In those now thankfully distant moments of bone-deep loneliness, when he was nothing more than Fish’s umbrella boy, he’d let his eyes slip closed and tried to imagine what it would feel like; a warm house with an even warmer embrace waiting for him on the other side of the door. Security and unconditional love all wrapped up in nights spent in front of the TV, shared meals, and the presence of someone else’s toothbrush next to his. But this? This is almost better. Different, sure, but better. Because Ed’s actually out there shaping Oswald’s future, _their_ future, brick by brick. And that fills him with such an overwhelming sense of acceptance and belonging that he can look back on those naïve fantasies with fondness knowing the young man that dreamt them up was going to end up with something so much _more_.

So Oswald gets on with his day, and Ed gets on with his, because knowing he’ll see him _eventually_ is, remarkably, enough.

Fortunately, Oswald rarely gets the opportunity to dwell on the lack of time they get to spend together, often too busy to let it fester and grow into something ugly like resentment. In fact, he never finds himself even remotely lacking in company at all. As Mayor, he has a whole team of people that aid him in running the city and though they may not be as enjoyable to be around as Ed, Oswald’s never had colleagues in the traditional sense before, so it’s still something of a welcome novelty. Penny’s an unobtrusive constant, eager to please and effortlessly competent. Even Tarquin is a surprise blessing, willing to take over any of Ed’s minor duties when he’s got more important things to do.

Then of course there’s Gabe, Victor and, more recently, Barbara.

Barbara’s been an interesting addition.

Stopping by Sirens for the first time after she offered her help with the wedding was predictably uncomfortable. Oswald still didn’t know where he stood with her, their history messy at best and downright antagonistic at worse. The evening they’d spent together on the day of his and Ed’s engagement announcement was pleasant, but fuelled mostly by a mutual love of alcohol rather than any real want to bond. Of course, he’d been to Sirens many times before, but never as someone so closely resembling a _friend_ and not for anything so intimately woven with threads of normalcy as _wedding planning_. So yes, that first time had been awkward. At least as far he was concerned, anyway.

As if sensing this, Barbara lead him to a somewhat secluded corner of the club, had one of her bar staff bring over a selection of drinks, and proceeded to bitch about her day; how her stock had been late, how incompetent the delivery boy was, how she had to subsequently throw away a perfectly good jumper because _do you know how difficult it is to get blood out of cashmere, Ozzie? It’s impossible!_

It was all dreadfully ordinary, but Oswald found himself actually enjoying it for that very reason. It was only once he was safely home and pleasantly tipsy that he realised she had sat them facing the door, subtly showing Oswald he was under no obligations to stay and that he wasn’t being lead into a trap. With the satisfaction they may have turned a corner in their relationship, sleep came easy that night.

It has since become a standing date between them, one Oswald finds himself looking forward to. Barbara’s surprisingly invested in actually helping. She has folders. _Folders_. All colour coded to his continuing bemusement. They decided pretty early on to hold the ceremony at the manor with the reception at Sirens. That way they can keep an eye on who comes and goes. The very nature of Oswald’s position means they need to be extra vigilant, what with someone taking the opportunity to eliminate a sizeable chunk of his boys and girls whilst his attention is elsewhere being a very real risk. On the far more conventional but no less important side of things, the colour scheme’s been picked, invitations have been sent, and they have an appointment scheduled for cake tasting sometime next week. But there’s still so much to do, hence two days every week remaining clear in their respective calendars for the foreseeable future.

* * *

Barbara’s already perched at the bar, effortlessly elegant, sipping something colourful and no doubt fruity. When she sees Oswald, her eyes light up and she’s immediately pressing delighted kisses onto each one of his cheeks.

“I heard on the grapevine _someone’s_ finally found the club of his dreams,” she says, coolly flagging down the bartender without even looking in his direction.

“It’s perfect,” he says, allowing a small smile to grace his lips as he takes a seat next to her. He has to hop onto the stool due to its height and only just about manages to do so without tipping over. Self-conscious about feeling so unstable, he leaves his cane within reaching distance resting against the bar. “Ed found the most gorgeous Art Deco building in The Diamond District.”

“Ooh, glitzy,” she says with obvious approval. “Bet it cost a small fortune.”

Oswald smirks and thinks back to the moment when Ed slipped out those photos from the back of his binder. “Smaller than you’d think,” he reveals cryptically. She seems to understand what he’s implying and matches his devilish expression, eyes twinkling.

“Good boy,” she compliments. He dips his shallowly head in thanks as she props herself up on the bar surface with a hand smooshed into her cheek, successfully exaggerating the childish pout already firmly in place. “Wish someone would buy me a club,” she sighs.

Oswald rolls his eyes, nodding to the bartender when he places Oswald’s usual in front of him. “You have a club, we’re _in it_ ,” he points out before taking a sip. It instantly warms him, easing away the tension caught up in his bones. “Also, I’m the one paying for it.”

“Semantics,” she says and waves her hand dismissively. “You’ll have to take me to see it sometime. Need to scope out the competition, after all,” she adds with a wink.

“If we get our way, the only competition we’ll ever have is each other.”

“Now I’ll drink to that,” she agrees, raising her glass in a toast to clink it against Oswald’s. The movement causes her already low cut top to shift further down and reveal a bruise that had up until that point been strategically hidden.

“I take it Tabitha’s back,” he says simply, holding up a hand when he sees her gearing up a retort. “I don’t care. Just keep them both away from me and we’ll call it square for now. I’ve got more important things to think about than whether Butch is lurking round every corner.”

“That’s surprisingly mature of you,” she says, causing Oswald to pull a face in mock offence. “But I wouldn’t worry. They’ve got their sights on your nerdier, lesser half.”

His heart lurches unpleasantly in his chest. “Barbara…” He trails off in warning.

“I’m joking,” she insists brightly. Oswald stares her down, eyes narrowed, until she eventually slouches with a huff. “Okay, I’m not, but I _am_ dealing with it, so don’t fret that pretty little head of yours. Anyway, they’re not back per se, but Tabby drops in every now and then.”

“And you’re fine with that?” She certainly doesn’t sound it; a tinge of bitterness colouring her tone that a few weeks ago Oswald probably wouldn’t have been able to pick up on.

She briefly screws up her nose then throws back her head to down the rest of her drink. “I’m trying to be,” she admits through gritted teeth. “Doesn’t help that Butch is _astonishingly_ okay with the whole situation.”

She says his name as if it tastes bad, bitter and unwelcome on her tongue, yet her sneer of derision seems to be masking something a little more honest, a little more immature.

“You’re jealous,” he states with a grin, barely restraining himself from pointing a finger in her face.

“Of course I’m jealous!” She confesses easily, an unspoken _duh_ silently accompanying it. “We can’t all live in domestic bliss.”

Oswald blinks dumbly for a few seconds. “I wouldn’t necessarily go that far,” he reveals slowly before he can stop himself. But Barbara is still listening intently, leaning forward slightly to show she’s interested. This is what friends do, right? Unload their worries. He steels himself and continues. “I feel like I hardly see him nowadays.”

She nods along in understanding. “Men, huh?” She says, echoing his own words back from their first ever meeting; when a false name tumbled from his lips as Jim looked on in thinly veiled horror. He allows himself a small smile, touched that she even remembers. 

Pleased, she sits back, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s why I no longer bother.”

Oswald snorts, the moment of candid openness fizzling away comfortably rather than shattering and leaving jagged, embarrassed shards behind.

“And anyway, as far as Tabby goes, I’m working my magic,” she adds with a leer, her response dripping with heavy-handed innuendo.

“Ew,” he offers simply, straight-faced. “Can’t relate.”

She laughs in genuine delight, eyes crinkling attractively at the corners as she tips her head back. He hides a smile behind his glass. That’s one thing he’s learnt about Barbara these past few weeks; she loves to tease him. And though sometimes she can be a little too cutting, slicing far too close to the bone without necessarily meaning to, he finds himself more often than not willing to indulge her. It’s an oddly comfortable stalemate, this give and take of wicked words they have. He actively enjoys having someone that won’t break down into uncontrollable blubbering when he gives as good as he gets and he’s confident she feels the same. It’s perhaps what prompts his next suggestion.

“If there’s anything I can do…” he begins, leaving the offer hanging awkwardly in the air, not even really sure what he’s suggesting. She cocks her head to the side in consideration.

“That’s sweet, but I’d rather she make up her own mind,” she admits with uncharacteristic awareness. “And anyway, you think if you send some of your boys to go get her they’ll come back in one piece? Honestly, Ozzie.”

“Point,” he concedes.

“I do appreciate the offer, though,” she says and gently pats his cheek in thanks.

Pulling away, she claps her hands together. “Right, so, I was thinking we could get started on the reception playlist today. I know you like that band The Crash—”

“The Clash,” Oswald automatically interrupts to correct. “Actually, I was hoping you’d come with me to pick up the rings, instead.”

He suddenly feels like he needs to justify himself. Add that he’d like her opinion on them or something rather than admitting all he really wants is her company, wants to share the moment with someone he’s come to consider a friend.

“Are you kidding me?” she shrieks and leans towards him, hands braced his thighs. “Of course! Let me go grab a coat.”

He sighs in relief as she dashes off, graceful even in her impossibly high heels. Slipping his phone out of the inner breast pocket of his blazer, Oswald calls his driver.

“Frank? Can you bring the car around, please? Barbara and I are going into town.”

Alone except for the bar staff, he takes the opportunity to carefully and slowly get off his stool. With his hands gripping the bar top securely, he lowers himself to the floor in his own time, making sure both feet are flat on the ground before letting go. Brushing down the front of his suit, he grabs his cane just as she comes back in a navy blue pea coat with a dramatic collar that contrasts attractively against her bright red lips and blonde waves. He’s about to compliment her on it when she winds a scarf around his neck. It’s the same blue as her coat and a welcome flash of colour against his otherwise black ensemble.

She fusses with it for a few moments and Oswald allows her to do so. Eventually, she steps back, clearly satisfied.

“Much better,” she says. “Now we match.”

Charmed, Oswald offers his arm.

“I hope you’re aware that if anyone else had tried that, they’d already be missing what many consider _essential_ features. Fingers, a hand, an _arm_.”

He buries his nose in the soft material and inhales deeply, catching a pleasant waft of her favourite perfume.

“Oh, I am,” she agrees, slipping her arm through Oswald’s. “But you trust my taste.”

“But I trust your taste,” Oswald parrots back in agreement as they make their way out of the club.

* * *

Goldstein & Sons is one of the oldest family owned businesses in Gotham. Still thriving after a couple of hundred years, owning a piece of Goldstein jewellery is in itself a status symbol. You’re guaranteed quality; exemplary craftsmanship passed down from generation to generation until it reached the point of perfection. 

The shop itself is relatively old fashioned on the outside, with a bell above the door that chimes pleasantly when Oswald pushes open the door. A member of staff is busy with a young couple on the far right hand side of the shop floor where three large armchairs are positioned so consultations can be done in comfort. She’s showing them a selection of their rings, very obviously the ready-to-buy options straight out of the glass cabinet as opposed anything bespoke.

Hearing the bell, Benjamin Goldstein comes out from the back room with his nose buried in a large, leather bound book. The language on the front isn’t one Oswald recognises, the script resembling something closer to delicate shapes than letters. He slips a bookmark between the pages before looking up.

“Ah! Mayor Cobblepot,” he greets with genuine warmth. The book makes a thud as he drops it onto the front desk, dust escaping from between the pages in a dramatic plume.

“Benjamin, a pleasure as always,” he says, reaching over the counter for a handshake. “Still attempting to unearth lost ancient techniques?”

“One can never become too complacent, not in this business,” he responds with ease. “And who’s this vision of loveliness?”

Barbara preens at the praise, always happy to be on the receiving end of compliments regardless of who’s giving them. She’s probably already planning to send some business his way, not that he needs it.

“You could learn a thing or two from him, Ozzie,” Barbara says under her breath and holds out her hand. “Barbara Kean. Wedding planner, maid of honour, best friend.”

Oswald rolls his eyes as the old man kisses her knuckles. “The man’s half blind,” Oswald mutters back. “So as far as you being a _vision_ \--”

“An honour,” Benjamin adds before turning his attention back to Oswald. He looks over the top of his glasses at him. “I was worrying you weren’t getting my calls. They’ve been ready to collect for over a week now.”

It’s a gentle scolding, the sort that when coming from a parent, often ends with the always humiliating _I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed_. Oswald shifts on the spot.

“I apologise, I’ve been rather busy.”

Barbara eyes him curiously. “What?” He questions defensively.

“Of course, of course,” Benjamin agrees. “A Mayor’s work is never done, I suppose.”

Oswald gives him a grimace of a smile in response.

“I’ll just go get them for you.”

Barbara, thankfully, busies herself with looking at the necklaces on display, blessedly silent until Benjamin comes back and presents him with a small black box that has Goldstein & Sons blazoned confidently on side.

“Please,” he urges, “have a look and tell me what you think.”

Oswald’s hands shake slightly as he reaches for it. Flicking open the lid, he’s greeted with two platinum rings. He removes one and relinquishes the box over to Barbara who carefully cradles it in her palm. He reverently runs a finger over the smooth surface, already able to clearly picture the sleek metal encircling Ed’s ring finger as if it was always meant to be there.

He wanted something simple, no stones or fussy designs to distract from the elegant craftsmanship. Well, apart from the engravings, of course.

“I can't be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance,” Barbara softly recites from the ring she has, then nudges closer to Oswald so she can see what the one he’s holding says, chin resting on his shoulder. He angles it up so she can read it. “I'm worthless to one, but priceless to two.”

Oswald feels his face prickle with heat.

“Oh _God_ , he’s even got you telling riddles now,” she groans dramatically, draping herself over his back fully. He suddenly has a face full of blonde hair, stray strands tickling his nose and caught in his lips. He splutters them out. “Love, though, right?” She continues, unbothered.

Oswald nods, stilted.

“That’s so cute I could almost puke,” she says without inflection, utterly deadpan.

“It’s something he said to me before the election,” Oswald explains, voice full of affection as he loses himself in the memories of that day; Ed’s unwavering belief in him even when he shot down his little riddle, stupidly proclaiming it as nonsense. As _unwanted_. His face soft, his arms open. The day forever etched into his mind with gentle support and warm touches. “I’m not even sure he’ll remember it but—”

“Of course he will,” Barbara interrupts with obvious exasperation, successfully jolting him back into the present. “A guy doesn’t say something like that without hoping you’ll carry in your heart for the rest of your life.”

She briefly squeezes him close in an imitation of a hug and then pulls herself off his back.

“They’re perfect,” Oswald says to Benjamin. And God, they really are. The old man’s face breaks out into a delighted smile.

“Splendid.”

Benjamin reaches below the counter to retrieve a deep red bag with gold swirls. The rumour mill is often rife with speculation when someone of importance is spotted with one, the entirety of Gotham aware of the implications of that familiar colour scheme. Fortunately, Oswald’s likely to find himself in the curious position of being exempt from the usual whispers, what with most already knowing about his engagement. If anything, the gossip is likely to start and end with just how much money he’s splashed on Ed. And that’s perfectly fine with him.

“Do you have anything similar to this necklace but with _more_ diamonds?” Barbara enquires, finger pressed against the protective glass.

Oswald looks to her, eyebrows raised in question. She sighs and straightens up.

“I told you, I’m working my magic. What, did you think I was talking about sex? Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, how utterly presumptuous of you,” she says with a wicked grin.

He rolls his eyes. “Please, forgive me,” he says mockingly, bowing slightly at the waist that manages to wrestle a giggle out from between her lips.

“So,” she begins, turning back to Benjamin, eager. “More diamonds?”

* * *

He gets back late, as he so often does after meeting with Barbara. After picking up the rings, they’d gone on an impromptu shopping spree where Barbara _finally_ decided on her dress for the wedding and Oswald, by chance, stumbled across the most perfect pair of shoes that match the suit he intends to wear. They eventually parted company when the street lights began to flicker on, Barbara leaving him with a sincere “they’re gorgeous, Ozzie” before slapping him on the arse with her purse and making him promise to call her in the morning.

He manages to find his way around the mansion easily enough without the need to turn on a light, muscle memory leading him around chairs and tables that in the dead of night become obstacles blanketed by darkness. Peeking into the lounge, he notices a large form on the sofa. He holds his breath as he shuffles closer, feet sliding across the floor boards.

Ed is stretched out as much as someone of his height on something much shorter can be. With his long legs and arms akimbo, he looks dreadfully uncomfortable. In the otherworldly light of the moon peeking through the curtains, Oswald notices he’s at least managed to get his shoes and belt off. His shirt also lays untucked and unbuttoned, tantalisingly exposing his white undervest. 

Oswald grabs the thick blanket folded up across the back of the sofa and drapes it over Ed, making sure it both reaches up to his chin and covers his feet. It gets awfully cold at night in the mansion and Oswald would usually wake him up upon finding him awkwardly crashed out like this but he already seems to be in a deep sleep; breathing even, face lax.

Perching on the armrest nearest Ed’s head, he slips off his glasses and lays them gently on the coffee table. He pushes the loose strands that have come out of his usual style off his forehead, relishing at how soft they feel under his fingertips. Ed sighs in his sleep and turns his face into Oswald’s hand, subconsciously seeking the out the heat of his palm.

Oswald stays sitting there for a while, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest until his back begins to ache and he _finally_ drags himself and the rings up to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

Oswald has always associated loving someone with the privilege of being allowed to see their intricacies; from little quirks to personal preferences, all those specific ways of going about their life that makes them unique.

He knows that Ed does origami to occupy his hands when caught up in his own mind; too many ideas, not enough time. A rose, a boat, a swan. They all eventually end up on Oswald’s desk. He knows that Ed can’t bear the idea of wearing mismatching socks, a few times even resorting to borrowing a pair of Oswald’s if he can’t find the one green one that’s been eluding him since Olga last did his laundry or the striped one that _was definitely here yesterday, Oswald_. He knows Ed’s favourite hair gel is an imported brand that only one store in the city stocks. He knows the tunes Ed hums under his breath even though he’s never heard the original versions.

It’s an odd feeling. A feeling of emotional fullness without any of the satisfaction you’d expect. Instead, you’re just left with a craving for more.

So yes, it’s _odd_.

But when your mind is overflowing with new, wonderful information, certain other things, desperately _important_ things, can end up being shuffled to the back of the queue. Not forgotten, just reprioritised until there’s a brief moment of quiet.

Which is why it’s with a jolt during a meeting he realises he can’t remember the last time he visited his mother.

He curses under his breath as he smashes his knees awkwardly into the underside of the table. The glass of water in front of him ripples dangerously from the force of it and his tourism director who’s currently delivering his latest presentation on how to get more people to come visit Gotham cuts off mid-sentence.

“Okay, Oswald?” He asks tentatively, perhaps wondering if it was something he’d said to garner such a violent reaction out of their Mayor.

“Apologies, just a leg spasm. Please continue.”

The man nods in relief and effortlessly picks up from where he left off.

Oswald rubs at his knees, already picturing the mottled purple and green that will be peppered across his skin come tomorrow morning.

Considering it happens to be a depressingly above-board, _Mayoral_ meeting with his department heads rather than anything seedier, he can’t just up and leave regardless of how much he wants to. Unfortunately, with his attention now largely elsewhere, his responses start to turn increasingly non-committal anyway. A nod here, a hum and ‘uh-huh’ there. Frederick throws him a glance every few minutes, his heavy brow scrunched up in concern, but Oswald can only manage to match them with strained smiles, each one more forced than the last. 

He tries to focus, really he does, but finds his eyes drawn to a crack in the wall, a toothpaste stain on the lapel of the man two people down from him, a mysterious smudge on the window. Shifting in his seat, he looks from his watch to the clock above the door, urging the time to go faster.

Finally, some three quarters of an hour later, they’re done.

Sighing in relief, he wiggles a finger between his shirt collar and neck and watches as everyone files out. He parrots their goodbyes back at them, making sure to keep his curt so not to encourage anyone to stay behind and strike up a conversation. He doesn’t jump when Frederick lays a hand on his shoulder, having anticipated the older man would likely want to check up on him before leaving.

“Doing okay, son?” Frederick asks with a soft voice. He has strategically placed himself between Oswald and the door in an attempt to hide him from the view of anyone if they were to suddenly burst back in. Oswald should feel bad that he’s made him worry, but the novelty of people caring has still yet to wear off and thinks it probably never will. “You seem distracted today.”

Oswald leans into his palm and lazily cocks his head up to give him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine thank you, Fred. Just remembered something I needed to do, that’s all.”

Frederick narrows his eyes.

“Really,” Oswald insists and pats his hand in thanks.

“If you say so,” he says slowly and briefly squeezes Oswald’s shoulder before stepping back. “Anyway, must get going. Vanessa’s visiting so she can introduce us to her new girlfriend. Marge wants me there 6 sharp so she can make me presentable before they arrive.”

Oswald chuckles. He’s never met Frederick and Margery’s oldest daughter Vanessa, what with her having moved to Starling City around the same time Oswald was still Fish’s umbrella boy, but he’s heard enough about her that it’s almost as if they’re old friends. 

“Good luck,” he wishes genuinely. “Just don’t be _too_ full-on. She’ll never forgive you if you scare her away,” he goes on to tease as Frederick sweeps his briefcase off the floor and heads towards the door.

“Honestly, Oswald, you’re starting to sound like Marge,” Frederick replies in a poor imitation of disapproval; the fondness obvious in the twitch of his mouth as he desperately tries to tamper down a smile.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he counters to Fred’s retreating back.

“As you should!”

Penny’s waiting patiently for him outside the conference room, not a hair out of place despite Oswald knowing full well just how frantically she moves around the City Hall; organising meetings, taking calls, going through files. All so Oswald’s day runs as smoothly as possible.

She effortlessly matches his awkward gait in a way that actually succeeds in drawing attention _away_ from them. No one spares him a second glance when he’s with Penny, his burdened stride seeming normal next to her. Oswald has the sneaking suspicion she does it without thinking, which only makes him appreciate it all the more.

“I need a car out front as soon as possible,” he orders firmly as they weave between City Hall employees.

“Yes, Sir.”

“If Edward needs to know where I am, just tell him I’m with my mother.”

“Of course.”

She walks him all the way to the foyer, stopping just inside the entrance. “There’s a fantastic family owned florist over on 5th,” she offers kindly.

If he hadn’t already given her a raise a couple of months ago, he’d probably do so right this second.

* * *

Having taken Penny's advice, he finds himself cautiously stepping into a quaint little shop some 15 minutes later. The woman behind the counter looks up from where she’s fussing around with a particularly dramatic arrangement and raises her eyebrows in surprise before quickly schooling her features into something more professional. Oswald proudly straightens his back. The fact that people treat him in the same way they would if they happened to see their favourite celebrity out shopping never gets old. It’s different from being feared yet not quite the same as being respected either. Either way, Oswald enjoys it.

“Welcome,” she says pleasantly. “If you need any help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

He spends probably longer than necessary selecting a bouquet of lilies, umming and ahhing over the most minor blemishes; a small spot of brown against an otherwise perfectly white petal or one too many unopened buds. But his mother deserves the best, especially seeing as she’s had to wait so long since his last visit.

Eventually deciding, he approaches the counter. Upon seeing what he’s picked, the florist’s eyes light up.

“Lovely choice,” she compliments. “Colour preference?” she adds, gesturing to the tissue paper and cellophane stacked up beside her.

“Whatever you think looks best.”

She chooses baby pink paper, clear cellophane and a slightly darker pink bow with the shops logo worked into it as a pattern. He watches on in interest as she expertly wraps up the flowers, distractedly tapping his fingers against the handle of his cane. After paying and saying his thanks, he turns to leave, eager to get to the cemetery before it starts to turn dark.

“Give my regards to Mr. Nygma,” she calls out just as he pushes the door open.

Oswald pauses and looks over his shoulder. She’s grinning the sort of grin that says _I know something you don’t_. He should perhaps find it disconcerting, but he doesn’t. If anything, he finds it disconcerting _because_ he doesn’t. After all, he supposes it makes sense for her to think he’s buying flowers for his husband to be.

“I will.”

* * *

Gotham Cemetery is almost a cliché in its gloominess. Seemingly in its own little weather bubble, a perpetual state of damp and miserable grey shrouds it from the rest of the city.

His legs lead him where he needs to go without even really thinking, past rows upon rows of standard markers until he reaches an intimidating stone angel. From there he takes a sharp left towards a large family plot that encompasses four generations with the space for more. By-passing it entirely, he speeds up slightly when he comes to the small grave, far too small, that always has a teddy bear placed lovingly next to the headstone, until finally reaching his destination.

It’s a little easier than it used to be, reconciling the woman who raised him with cold earth and even colder stone, but he knows he’ll never fully rid himself of that very specific ache of being left behind after a love one goes where you can’t follow.

“Hello, mother,” he says softly to the grave. His only answer is a sudden sharp gust of wind that makes the grass shiver and his coat flutter. He shivers and hunches into himself, shoulders up around his ears. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by recently.”

Forcing his rapidly stiffening limbs to move against the chill, he kneels down and lays the bouquet of lilies against his mother’s headstone. His knees squeak in a way you feel more than hear. It doesn’t hurt, but is just enough of a reminder that something isn’t quite right. 

Swallowing thickly, he busies himself with pulling up the weeds that have sprung up since his last visit.

“See, the thing is…” he begins nervously, cutting himself off to look away as if she was actually there in front of him, disapproving frown already firmly in place. “I’m getting married,” he adds with false cheer, punctuating it with the sharp tug of a dandelion.

Another gust whips past and he closes his eyes against the suddenness of it.

“You’d like him, I think. Intelligent, handsome, would do absolutely anything for me,” he trails off with a fond smile. “I’m opening a club, too. Ed found it for me. He’s so wonderful like that. It’s practically a joint venture at this point and… and I honestly couldn’t be happier about that. A few years ago I would have scoffed at the idea of doing this all with someone but I’d be truly lost without him.”

“I know the circumstances aren’t ideal…” He curls his fingers into the fabric stretched across his thighs as a sudden wave of nausea at the sight of her name engraved into solid stone makes him drop his gaze. “I-I’ve tried to tell him how I feel. How I _really_ feel,” he admits. “But it’s so difficult! Why didn’t you tell me it would be this difficult?”

His eyes start to burn from pent up frustration. “If you find it, run to it,” he mimics with a sneer. Easier said than done, he thinks bitterly. “What should I _do_?” he pleads desperately, voice cracking. A tear tracks its way down his cheek, pooling briefly in the bow of his top lip before continuing down until he licks it away. The sudden burst of saltiness only seems to spur on more and he’s soon sobbing into his hands.

“Oswald.”

He swings around, viciously wiping his eyes and peers up at Ed in surprise. The drab scenery bleeds into him, washing out the pink of his skin almost completely. If it wasn’t for those little touches of life, the barely there rise and fall of his shoulders or the flutter of eyelashes mid-blink, he’d be indistinguishable from a deathly spectre.

“How much did you hear?” he demands in a way he rarely does with Ed, aggressive and cutting.

Ed holds up his hands, a bouquet of flowers grasped tightly in one. Oswald eyes it. Lilies. “Just that you were asking for her advice on something, that’s all, I swear.”

Relieved but embarrassed, Oswald snorts. “Then all you got to hear was how pathetic I am, wonderful. Silver linings and all that, I suppose. ”

“Talking to the dead is common. It helps you heal,” Ed says bluntly.

Then, as if intent on proving just how much he believes that, he confidently approaches the grave. “Hello, Gertrud,” he says in an echo of Oswald earlier words. “Sorry it’s been a while since I last came.”

Oswald watches as Ed gently lays his own bouquet of lilies down next to Oswald’s then offers him a hand. Still feeling the hot burn of embarrassment, he thinks about ignoring it, maybe even batting it away. But it’s _Ed_ so he gratefully accepts it and lets himself be pulled to his feet.

“What do you mean it’s been a while?” Oswald asks as Ed brushes him down, dislodging stray blades of grass and minuscule flecks of gravel.

“Don’t you remember? That day you got brought into the GCPD. Just before they carted you off to Arkham. You asked me to take care of her grave, tell her that you were thinking of her.”

Oswald blinks dumbly up at him. “Well, yes, of course, but I didn’t think you actually would.”

“As often as I could, even after you got out. It became a habit of sorts,” he admits. “We’ve had many a good chats, Gertrud and I,” he adds, patting the gravestone fondly. Turning back to Oswald, he at least has the decency to look apologetic about interrupting. “I hope you don’t mind, but when Penny told me where you were, I realised I’d been slacking. I didn’t consider you may want to be alone. I can go back to the car if you like.”

Oswald gives a puff of laughter, the last dredges of shame fizzling away. “It’s fine. That’s exactly why I came, too. I appreciate the company. I thought you were busy today, though. Isn’t it an office day?”

“It was nothing Tarquin couldn’t handle.”

“Which means you’ve left him with piles of boring paper work to sort through.”

“Guilty.”

They stand together in a companionable silence in front of Gertrud’s grave. Looking at their two bouquets next to each other, Oswald realises they’re practically identical. The same amount of the flowers, the same style of presentation, the same _pattern_ on the bow. Oh. _That’s_ why the florist reacted the way she did. Ed must use the same store. And if he’s been visiting his mother for as long as he says, she probably knows him as Edward, maybe even Ed, but didn’t want to give the game away. The idea that other people potentially find their relationship _sweet_ warms him and he vaguely wonders if it’s too late to change their supplier for the wedding.

He’s about to joke as much when Ed does something astonishing; he kneels down in the exact spot Oswald had been when he caught him pouring his heart out to a ghost.

“One of my greatest regrets is that I didn’t get to meet you,” he murmurs and Oswald’s breath hitches, the noise thankfully catching on the wind and carried away. “I’ll look after him. I promise.”

“Ed—” A raindrop hits his nose and he goes cross-eyed to look at it. Then another, and another, until it’s coming down in heavy little pellets.

It was already muddy when he arrived and, frankly, it was a miracle he hadn’t slipped over as he made the trek to her grave. But with his shoes having little to no grip coupled with just how unsteady he is on his feet anyway, the increasing slickness of the grass will likely make getting back to the car as difficult as traversing an ice rink.

“The one time I leave my umbrella in the car,” he grumbles to himself.

Having at some point gone from kneeling into a crouch, Ed gestures to his back. “Get on.”

Oswald rears back in surprise at the offer. “Don’t be stupid, I’ll be too heavy.”

“You’re not. I should know,” Ed says dismissively. Getting no reply, he turns his head to look over his shoulder. “Didn’t you ever wonder _how_ you ended up in my flat after you passed out from blood loss?”

“I never really thought about it to be honest.”

He very _deliberately_ hadn’t, in fact. Waking up in a strange man’s bed was more than enough to fuel those quiet moments of solitude where you end up dwelling on every little uncomfortable situation you’ve ever unwittingly found yourself in.

“We can try a princess hold if that’s easier,” Ed offers. “It’s what I did before.”

Oswald cringes at the thought of his limp body in Ed’s arms; head lolling against his chest as blood drips down to leave a gruesome trail behind them. “Let me have some dignity,” he mutters to himself.

Squinting up at the sky through the rain, he’s greeted with a thick blanket of dark clouds. He sighs. His feet squelch as he cautiously moves towards Ed, little bubbles of mud popping up from the force of his weight pressing into the now malleable ground. He pauses for a few seconds, watching as the drops that hit Ed’s coat slowly turn it a darker colour.

“Come on, Oswald. You’ll catch your death out here.”

Finally relenting, Oswald moulds himself to Ed’s back, arms circling his neck. He closes his eyes as Ed straightens up, his hands firmly clutching Oswald’s thighs to hold him in place. He staggers slightly once he’s at his full height and Oswald involuntary tightens his hold by squeezing his legs together.

“Okay, you’re a little heavier than I remember,” Ed admits.

“I’ll get down—”

Ed jolts his body upwards, hitching Oswald higher on his back so he has a more secure hold. “I didn’t say you were _too_ heavy.”

He takes a careful step, then another, and another until he’s briskly walking towards the car. 

Ed slips forward a touch too far a couple of times, his foot gliding across the mud like a knife through butter, but regains his balance almost immediately every time. It’s easier once they’re back on the path, but Oswald knows he would still have trouble navigating the uneven surface. Fortunately, Ed doesn’t appear to even consider letting him down, continuing onward as if on a mission at an even faster pace than before. Oswald holds on tighter, burying his face in juncture between Ed’s neck and shoulder, and allows himself a small smile.

“I told your driver to go home, but I brought the Bentley,” Ed shares as they approach the car.

He takes Oswald to the passenger side and lets him slip down safely onto his feet before quickly scuttling round to the other door. Once inside, they take a few moments to just relish being out of the rain. Ed slips off his glasses so he can wipe them clean with the tip of his tie whilst Oswald pushes back his fringe into a slicked back style reminiscent of Ed’s to get it out of his face.

“You know, this is the first time since my father died that I’ve had any company whilst visiting her,” Oswald confides. He peers out of the window, barely able to make out familiar scenery through the water-tracked glass. 

“Then how about you and I make it a monthly thing?” Ed suggests easily.

Oswald presses a finger to the chilled window and wipes away a squiggly line of condensation. He smiles softly. “I’d like that.”

* * *

The rain still hasn’t stopped when they pull up in front of the mansion. If anything, it’s harder than before, coming down in forceful sheets.

“We’re going to have to run for it,” Ed says. “Can you manage?”

“I think so.”

He nods. “Okay, ready, stea—”

He doesn’t get to finish before Oswald throws open his door and bolts out into the rain, laughing loudly. Ed gapes, stunned utterly frozen, until his mind catches up with his eyes and he’s ripping off his seat belt.

Oswald flattens his palm against the door a second before Ed does, his fingers splayed out widely.

“I won,” Oswald announces smugly.

Ed looks down to where he has him all but bracketed against the door, having reached over Oswald’s head in an attempt to touch the door first. He makes no motion to move away.

“You cheated,” he says with a smile that makes it seem more like a compliment than a statement of fact.

Oswald rests his head back against Ed’s shoulder so he can look at him from upside down. “Naturally,” he simpers, fluttering his eyelashes, the effect dampened quite literally by the beads of water clinging to them.

Having heard the sudden smack of palms against polished wood and muffled bickering, Olga opens the door. She steps to the side as they all but tumble over the threshold into the warmth. She tsk’s and shakes her head as she looks them over, the two most powerful men in Gotham, drenched through and barely restraining childlike giggles. Mumbling under her breath in Russian, she disappears back into the comforting low-light of the mansion.

“Think we may be in trouble,” Ed muses.

“Speak for yourself.”

She comes back in a few moments later with two fluffy towels. She throws one in Ed’s direction, barely looking to see if she hits her mark, then gently drops the other over Oswald’s head before leaving once again. Oswald lifts it up to give Ed a look from underneath it that seems to say _see?_ Ed rolls his eyes.

“Yes, yes. I’m well aware she likes you best.”

They kick off their shoes, leaving them strewn across the hallway amongst little puddles of water, and hang up their overcoats. Then, scrubbing their hair as they go, they retire to the lounge.

Oswald rids himself of his blazer first, draping over the armchair, then settles down onto the sofa to remove his trousers. He fumbles awkwardly with the belt buckle, his fingers still not fully thawed out from the chill of the rain. He flinches as the metal clinks against itself, the sound entwined with more intimate connotations. Lifting his hips up, he wriggles his trousers over his thighs until they can slip down unaided and pool onto the floor.

A few moments later, Olga brings in a tray of hot chocolate and their robes draped over one arm. Setting it all down on the coffee table, she then goes around the room lighting candles and stoking the fire. Ed passes over a mug and Oswald greedily warms his hands against the heated ceramic.

“Have you been to the club today?” Oswald asks after a cautious sip, taking a blissful moment to savour the rich flavours that burst over his tongue. After slipping on his robe, Ed collapses down onto the sofa next to him with a contented sigh.

“Unfortunately not,” he admits. “Everything’s fine though. Zsasz was bored so I sent him over. He’s been sending me photos all day.”

He reaches over for his phone. Swiping it open, Ed pulls up Zsasz’s most recent texts and hands it over to Oswald.

“It’s looking good,” Oswald says, scrolling down until the photos of the work currently in progress begin to peter out into Zsasz posing in random places round the club. He rolls his eyes and hands it back over.

Ed nods. “You should really come and see for yourself soon when you have the time. It is your club, after all.”

Well, that’s as good of opening as any.

“That actually reminds me,” he says in what he hopes comes across as nonchalant. “Stay here, I’ll be back,” he adds, slipping on his robe.

Padding into his office, Oswald heads straight to his desk. He slips out a black folder from the bottom most draw and grabs a pen from the pot. Pausing briefly before leaving the room, he takes a deep breath to calm his nerves.

In a role reversal of their usual positions, Oswald finds himself sliding a collection of papers under Ed’s nose.

“I’m going to need your signature on these,” he says simply.

Folding his legs under him to create a stable surface to rest the folder against, Ed flips it open. “What’s this?” he asks with the vague, surface interest of someone having been handed something without any explanation.

Oswald watches with increasing nervousness as Ed’s eyes dart across the page, slowly widening as he moves further down.

“Oswald,” he says slowly, turning his name over in his mouth as if it’s thick and heavy. “What is this?” he reiterates as if he doesn’t already know. As if he isn’t _intimately_ aware with what Oswald is offering him.

“It’s the lease for The Iceberg Lounge. I’m putting you on it,” he explains unnecessarily. “Consider it _my_ wedding gift to you,” he says, throwing Ed’s words back at him in an attempt to inject a sliver of humour into the situation, to show he’s in control.

“I don’t understand.” 

He seems more annoyed than confused and honestly, Oswald really shouldn’t find it endearing that Ed’s reaction when unable to make all the puzzle pieces fit together is a little darker than it should be. He shuffles closer and places a comforting hand on Ed’s arm. 

“If anything were to happen to me, I need to know there would be someone I trust to run the club. Also, it would… put my mind at ease to know you had something to fall back on. Financially speaking, that is.”

"Oswald, I—” He’s flustered, his usual eloquence startlingly absent. “Are you sure?”

Oswald straightens his back and looks Ed in the eyes. “More sure than I’ve ever been about anything.”

Ed inhales sharply, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“W-what’s wrong?” Oswald asks, hands fluttering uselessly in the air.

“Even now, you continue to surprise me.”

Oswald watches has he shakily uncaps the lid with his teeth and gently presses the nub against the paper. Oswald holds his breath.

“Are you really, really sure?” Ed suddenly says around the lid, his usual clear diction tainted with a slight slur.

“For fuck’s sake, Ed,” Oswald whines.

Ed chuckles and begins to sign.

Oswald drinks in the sight, committing it to memory so that, decades in the future, he can look back on it as the moment someone, his _Ed_ , wanted to be part of his life in a way that whilst perhaps not quite as intimate as marriage, is far more meaningful for two people so deeply entwined with violence and darkness. It’ll be then, and only then, that he’ll realise it was also the moment he fell in love all over again.

Once finished, Ed holds it up as if posing for a photo, the rigidness of his shoulders and back betraying the playfulness for what it actually is; a forced attempt to ease a certain brand of tension that can only be achieved when two people realise the magnitude of what they have just done. Overcome with happiness, Oswald launches himself into Ed’s arms. Still clutching the documents, Ed holds them awkwardly out of the way lest they be crumbled between their bodies.

“I’m so glad,” he mumbles into Ed’s shoulder, their positions reminiscent of the night Ed saved him from Butch; dark bruising twisted round his long neck, the gold of Oswald’s robe shining opulently against the oranges of the fire.

“Oswald,” he begins tentatively. 

Begrudgingly, Oswald pulls back and settles back into his previous position, waiting for Ed to continue. 

Ed shakes his head slightly and sets his jaw. He looks like he does just before he has to talk to someone important, determination disguising faint nervousness. “Would you like to go out somewhere? For dinner, perhaps?”

Oswald looks at the weather outside, rain still pelting it down, and wrinkles his nose. “Right now?”

Ed visibly winces. “Tomorrow, then,” he amends. “It’s one of our rare off days and I’d like to… take you out. Is that… is that okay?”

“Take me out?” Oswald repeats. “Is this because of our,” he pauses, searching for an adequate word, “arrangement?”

They do enough public appearances together that the idea of faking some to make their engagement seem real never seemed like a necessity. Ed looks stricken at the implication.

“God, no,” he insists fiercely. “And not as a thank you for this either. Even though, shit, _thank you_ , truly. But because I want to. Hell, because I really, _really_ want to.”

Oswald can’t help but feel something has changed. Look, mother. I did something right. Aren’t you proud? He thinks.

“It’s fine if you don’t want—”

“Yes!” Oswald interrupts loudly. They both blink at each other. “I mean, yes, of course. I’d like that.”

“Good,” Ed says in relief. “Good.”

Oswald tries not to get his hopes up, but it’s desperately difficult.


	8. Chapter 8

Over the last few years, Oswald’s managed to turn getting ready to an art form.

It took a lot of trial and error, more often than not resulting in him having to decide between styling his hair and being late. Throw volatile men and women not necessarily known for their patience into the mix on top of that and Oswald was definitely walking on thin ice.

But he’s now at a point where he could probably pick out an outfit, do his hair, and perfect his make-up all with his eyes closed.

Which is why already being past the allotted hour he’s managed to get it down to so distressing.

He stands in front of his mirror in nothing but his underwear, a mountain of suits piled up behind him on the bed. He fists his hands into his hair and pulls in frustration, the sharp sting doing little to spur him on in making up his mind.

“This is ridiculous,” he groans.

He lets himself tip backwards, the mound of clothes cushioning his fall as he lands with a dull whump across them. He splays his arms outwards, legs dangling off the edge off the edge, toes just barely grazing the wood flooring.

Ed’s probably seen every possible combination of suit, shirt and tie Oswald owns, so as far _why_ he’s having so much trouble deciding, well, he really has no idea.

The slightly muffled buzz from somewhere beneath him is a welcome distraction.

He pats around blindly, fingertips searching out those incessant vibrations, eventually finding his phone buried under the first suit he’d considered and then discarded.

“What?” he snaps into it.

“Ozzie,” an amused voice sing-songs down the line.

“Barbara,” he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“The one and only,” she purrs. “Just calling to let you know that we’ve had a little… incident, shall we say—”

He abruptly sits up, pointedly ignoring the sharp pain in his leg that spikes upwards at the sudden movement. All sorts of scenarios flash through his head. Has Barbara pissed anyone off lately? Probably. But that’s par the course. “What? Are you okay?” He demands.

“Oh, yes, nothing to worry about,” she dismisses flippantly. “It’s just the club is in a little bit of a state and my usual cleaner-upper is unavailable sooooo I was wondering if there was anyone you could send my way willing to work at short notice. Can’t have your lovely shoes getting all bloody when you drop by tonight, after all.”

Relieved, he dutifully rattles off the number of his usual go-to guy. “Just so you know, he isn’t the most talkative, so if you just let him get on with it, then everything should be—” 

He cuts himself off. Wait. Drop by tonight? Oh. He curses down the line.

“My, my,” she scolds. “You kiss your Chief of Staff with that mouth?”

“I can’t make it tonight,” he admits, genuinely apologetic. He enjoys their get-togethers. They’re often the highlight of his week if there hasn’t been anyone to threaten or dispose of.

There’s a couple seconds of silence. “You’re blowing me off?” She sounds so ridiculously offended that he can’t help but smile.

“Ed’s taking me out,” he shares like it’s a secret between pre-teens. “We only planned it yesterday. Are you free Friday instead?”

“You’re lucky I like you, Oswald Cobblepot,” she grumbles and Oswald can so easily picture the pronounced pout gracing her lips. “Yes, I’m free.”

“Good,” he says after a relieved exhale. Flopping back down onto his sad pile of discarded clothes, he has a sudden thought. “Oh, Barbara?”

“Hmm?”

“I need your advice.”

* * *

Finally dressed after Barbara’s invaluable input, he leaves the sanctuary of his room and nervously crosses the landing.

They’d mutually decided on a black suit with velvet accents, a maroon waist coat over a crisp white shirt and a lightly patterned bow tie in a shade just a tad darker than the waist coat. He looks good. He _feels_ good.

Peering down the staircase, he notices Ed’s propped up against the front door. Oswald watches in fond amusement as he briefly checks his watch, his other hand busy tapping out a rhythm against his thigh, only to then check it again a few seconds later, the sleeve barely having had the time to fall back into place.

Oswald squints. “That’s not one I bought,” he announces as he begins to make his way down the stairs. Ed straightens and smiles up at Oswald as he carefully descends.

“No,” he agrees and self-consciously smooths his hands down the front of his suit. “I hope you don’t mind.”

It fits well, but that’s to be expected. One of the first things Oswald did after announcing Ed as his Chief of Staff was take him to his tailor. He got lucky with guessing Ed’s size the first time, but he was desperate to get his exact measurements on file. So no, it’s not the way the fabric sits snug against the sharp lines of his body because that’s been a non-issue ever since he started living under the same roof as Oswald, it’s the little finishing touches that don’t mesh quite as seamlessly as usual instead; an unnecessary pocket square, the wrong cufflinks, the right colour shirt but the wrong shade. He clearly still has a lot of work to do when it comes to instilling Ed with any sense of taste.

“Of course not,” he allows, hoping that just how much he’s inwardly cringing doesn’t show on his face.

Ed beams and offers his hand to Oswald to help him down from the last step.

“You all set to go?”

“Lead the way.”

Once settled in the car, Oswald can’t contain his curiosity any longer. He turns in his seat towards Ed, barely registering the seatbelt pulling tightly across his chest.

“So, where are we going?” He asks eagerly.

Ed doesn’t even flick a brief glance his way; too focused on overtaking the slow moving car in front of them, but Oswald can see a wide grin stretch across his face regardless.

“I booked a table at The Orchard.”

“The Orchard? How on Earth did you manage that?”

It’s notoriously hard to get a reservation at The Orchard. Or so he’s heard, anyway. It always seems to be the choice restaurant for many of the people he now finds himself rubbing shoulders with and even then only a small amount of them have actually been lucky enough to secure a table without a yearlong wait.

Ed does grace him with a look this time, a fond smile curling his lips upwards.

“Your name has a lot of weight nowadays,” he teases. “Mine too, actually. Which is… exhilarating, to say the least.” His soft smile turns wicked and Oswald chuckles.

“I hope you didn’t threaten the nice people, Eddie,” Oswald scolds half-heartedly. “I won’t tolerate a wrong order or dropped plates just because you’ve scared the poor waitstaff half to death.”

Ed gasps dramatically and takes one hand off the wheel to press it against his forehead as if suddenly feeling faint. “You wound me.”

Oswald condescendingly pats his knee. “Eyes on the road, dear.”

* * *

The sky is a beautiful marbled pink and orange when they eventually pull up to The Orchard. The only clouds are wispy and delicate, curling around each other like plumes of smoke.

Though just one of many similarly high-class restaurants which make up the Diamond District’s entertainment square, The Orchard remains the pinnacle of what the area has to offer. That’ll all change once The Iceberg Lounge is open, of course. All the best restaurants and stores will want to be close by, hoping for an increase in business by association, by _proximity_. Oswald plans on setting the new standard.

It’s relatively generic inside, but he can see what the appeal would be to those who profess to prefer the finer things in life; lots of polished surfaces, deep rich colouring, and not a single detail out of place, from the exotic decorative plants to the artfully dressed tables. Even the servers are attractive. Not too attractive, of course, they don’t want to show up their often deeply vain clientele, after all.

“Mayor Cobblepot, Mr. Nygma,” a server greets pleasantly. “Please follow me.”

She leads them through the main seating area to a slightly smaller room that, despite its size, is just as richly furnished. It lacks the large windows that make up the restaurant’s front, giving a far more private feel away from the prying eyes of passers-by. 

There are actually a few faces Oswald recognises here. A couple of mob bosses Oswald deals with regularly who nod at him as they pass, the city’s main judge with a woman who is _definitely_ not his wife, and a handful of world renown celebrities.

“You won’t be bothered by paparazzi here,” she explains as she shows them to a table. “Unless you’re hoping to be seen tonight that is, then I’m sure we’ll be able to make some room for you back out front.”

Part of him wouldn’t mind the attention, the flashes of cameras interrupting each mouthful as photographers crowd round the windows desperate to get a glimpse of them. But tonight’s different from their usual outings. And regardless of how satisfying being able to parade Ed around is, having him all to himself for a change sounds pretty damn nice.

“No, this is perfect, thank you,” Oswald replies.

Ed pulls Oswald’s chair out for him before sitting down himself on the other side of the table.

“Would you like anything to drink while you look over the menu?”

“A bottle of your best red for the table, please. Price isn’t an issue.”

“Certainly.”

“This is lovelier than I thought it would be,” Oswald muses once they’re alone, taking in the elegant décor. Ed cocks his head slightly to the side in question. “When high-society types big up a place I find it tends to end up lacking,” Oswald goes on to explain.

“True,” Ed agrees. “It’s all just posturing. Repeating what they’ve heard rather than what they know. I’d suggest that 90% of those we find ourselves having to entertain probably haven’t even set a foot inside here.”

“Then the next party we find ourselves at, I fully intend to gush.”

“You may find yourself down an ally or two if you rub it in their faces,” Ed warns cheekily.

“Oh, please,” he laughs with a flap of his hand. “If anything it will make them flock around me more.”

Ed hums in neither agreement nor disagreement. “Just be careful, Oswald.”

Oswald rolls his eyes and picks up the menu.

Every dish has an unnecessarily long name and an even longer description in cursive underneath, with the odd splattering of French likely for the benefit of their more easily impressed patrons. It’s blatant pandering and not for the first time Oswald bemoans the lack of _true_ class among Gotham’s elite.

“Barbara said Jim once tried to get them a reservation here,” he says conversationally while scanning for anything that piques his interest. Or even _recognises_. “He was unsuccessful, naturally, bless him,” he adds with a fond chuckle.

An annoyed huff draws his eyes away from what he _thinks_ is a fish dish back up to Ed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replies with barely disguised petulance. Oswald starts a mental count down. 1, 2, 3… True to form, Ed gives in, ultimately unable to keep any grievance to himself. “It’s just… you and Barbara talk about Jim a lot, do you?” He inquires in a way which is clearly meant to be innocently but misses the mark by a touch or two.

Their server comes back with their wine before Oswald can reply, so he pastes on a polite smile as she shows them the year and then proceeds to pour them out a class each. Oswald takes a sip and lets the flavours burst over his tongue. He looks Ed over.

“Sometimes,” Oswald eventually allows cautiously, ready to throw back up those familiar emotional walls if necessary.

“She’s still hung up on him, then?”

Oswald snorts into the glass. She’d put a gun to his head at the very _insinuation_. “No, definitely not.”

“Are you?” Ed fires back sharply.

His fingers briefly slacken in surprise, the glass almost slipping through them before he catches himself. He feels his face burn in embarrassment.

“I, well,” he stumbles over his words in an attempt to find an adequate answer to a question he never would have anticipated ever leaving Ed’s lips. Ed doesn’t even have the decency to _look_ at him, half of his face now hidden behind his menu.

Barbara teasing him is one thing, they commiserate _together_ , but Ed is unknown territory. Sure, he also has history with Jim and though Oswald has no doubt Ed’s own feelings concerning him are equally complicated, it’s unlikely he ever went beyond just hoping for a friendship to bloom between them.

Getting no response, Ed finally looks up, revealing a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. Oswald’s heart lurches awkwardly in his chest and he has to look away to collect himself. He bunches up the table cloth in a clenched fist; angry, nervous and embarrassed all at once.

Ed at least seems to notice just how uncomfortable he’s made Oswald and attempts to smooth his expression into something less hard.

“That was uncalled for,” he admits. “I apologise.”

“As you should,” Oswald bites. “I’m not a child, Edward. Surely you of all people understand how it’s _just not as simple as that_ ,” he adds with a hiss.

“I do, I do,” he reassures and reaches across the table to lay his palm facing upwards in front of Oswald invitingly. Oswald hesitates for a second before slipping his own hand into it, Ed’s fingers immediately curling round his gently.

Oswald eyes him warily, then the entirety of the room. The tables are far enough apart that everyone is afforded as much privacy as possible while still all occupying the same space, so it’s unlikely anyone is paying them any particular attention. The background noise of intimate conversation is unintelligible, which means he can only assume they are equally safe from any eavesdropping.

“I… care for him, and probably always will,” he shares after a moment. He wets his lips briefly before continuing, mouth unbearably dry. “Who I am today is, ultimately, thanks to him. He spared my life, Ed. And regardless of everything else, even Arkham, it will always, _always_ , come back to that.”

“I owe Kristen so much,” he says softly and Oswald goes rigid, the name like a shock of electricity up his spine. He attempts to pull back but Ed’s grip turns tighter, keeping in place. “So I understand.”

Oswald can’t help but scoff. “With all due respect Ed, our situations are hardly similar. I was under no illusions that he’d ever reciprocate. And crucially? He’s still _breathing_.”

Ed flinches. Barely, but it’s there. Good. Oswald pulls his hand free and sets them both in his lap so he can safely rub away the tingles left by Ed’s touch out of view.

“If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here with you,” Ed amends. “That’s, er, that’s what I meant.”

An awkward silence descends, one he’s not used to when it’s just the two of them. Usually it’s comfortable; neither of them ever attempting to fill any dips in conversation because they feel like they have to. It’s always _easy_ with Ed in a way it’s never been with anyone else.

Ed clears his throat. “Thank you for sharing,” he eventually says.

“Well I didn’t really have a choice, did I?” Oswald sneers. Ed’s not usually so blatant with his manipulation. He’s usually much more underhanded. Subtle. And that’s why Oswald usually allows him to get away with it. The sheer entertainment value. Because even if Oswald happens to be on the receiving end, which is very, very rarely, he at least _knows_ he is.

“Point,” Ed concedes. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to be so blunt. I just… I don’t know. When you talk about him you look so happy and—” 

Oswald recoils. “There isn’t a conflict of interest if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“It’s not, Oswald,” he says with a small laugh and a shake of his head.

“Then I don’t understand,” he whines. “So, _please_ , enlighten me, because I’m beginning to lose my patience.”

“You can talk to me, is what I’m trying to say. If you’re still in love with Jim—”

Oswald slams his hands down on the table. Their glasses wobble precariously and the elegant candle holders ting together.

“Eddie, you’re my best friend and I trust you with my life, but for the love of all that is holy,” he takes a steadying breath to calm himself down. “I am not in love with James Gordon.”

“Good. Because you deserve far better.”

“Well, _duh_ ,” Oswald manages to choke out.

The tension is palpable, sparking across the air between them. Oswald swears he can hear the hisses and pops of static.

“Anyway,” Ed says, picking his menu back up. “What are you in the mood for?”

* * *

After ordering, they eventually settle into their familiar back-and-forth of work talk sprinkled with a touch of gossip. It’s a little more stilted than usual, Ed not as sharp with his observations of their colleagues as Oswald’s come to expect. His brutal condescension is considered rather than automatic, suggesting his thoughts are elsewhere.

Maybe he’d been a bit too curt with him. Ed cares for him, he knows that, and Oswald sometimes forgets that he hasn’t actually been by his side for that long. There’s a lot he hasn’t shared with him purely because he’s never thought to in the first place. Maybe it’s about time he did.

“You know, once, when I was 13, I got a teacher fired,” he offers up tentatively.

Ed seems to take it for what it is, an olive branch, and leans forward in his seat. Resting his elbows on the table, he links his hands together and rests his chin on them.

“This I’ve _got_ to hear.”

And from there, it snowballs. From Oswald’s time just before landing his job with Fish, where everything he has now was merely a pipe dream, to Ed’s less than pleasant childhood. They learn more about each other than they’ve ever dared to tread before. It’s… exciting. Not in the same way pumping someone full of bullets is, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you only _just_ manage to catch them off guard, but how Oswald assumes whenever you decide to lay yourself bare for someone tends to be. It’s a risk he’s always wanted to be able to take. Because it means someone’s cared enough to do the same for him.

Over the next few hours, the other couples seated around them slowly disperse until they’re the only ones remaining. They’re largely left alone, the waitstaff knowing better than to hurry along any of their more important guests. They laugh louder than they’ve probably ever done before, gesturing widely with their heads tipped back in mirth, safe in the knowledge they _can_. But having just asked for the bill, Oswald’s distinctly aware that their night is beginning to similarly wrap up.

“And then Zsasz just took out his phone and ordered a pizza right there and then. There were about ten bodies strewn across the floor. The poor delivery boy insisted the pizza was on him. Apparently it _works every time, boss_ ,” he finishes with an uncanny impression of their resident assassin.

“The fact that I’m not even remotely surprised says a lot.”

“It’s when he acts normal you have to worry,” Oswald agrees.

Their server elegantly meanders around the now empty tables over to them. Her hair, make-up and uniform are still impeccable despite the countless hours she’s been at the mercy of far richer but far less personable people than her.

“Unfortunately, there are a few photographers waiting outside,” she says, putting down the small silver dish next to Ed’s elbow that has the bill and a couple of high-quality mints on. “We have a back door for these sorts of situations that you’re more than welcome to use.”

The alternative exit puts them in the alley way behind the restaurant, but true to Diamond District form, it’s well-lit and almost suspiciously clean; free from the rotting trash and discarded needles that usually make up Gotham’s shadowy alleyways and backstreets.

Following the path, they eventually end up back in the square, a few feet away from the restaurant’s entrance. Chancing a brief look down the street, Oswald sees a handful of photographers crowded round the doors. They all simultaneously raise their cameras as two people walk out only to immediately lower them again with a palpable sigh upon realising it isn’t who they were hoping for.

“Think we may have spoiled their scoop,” Ed whispers close to Oswald’s ear.

“Well boo-hoo,” Oswald responds.

* * *

Back home, Ed insists on walking Oswald to his bedroom door. It’s entirely unnecessary, what with Ed’s room being a few doors down, but Oswald finds it sweet, unable to divorce it entirely from what he’s seen in countless romantic movies.

“I had a lovely evening,” Oswald announces perhaps a touch too loudly. He’s a little buzzed from the wine, not to the extent where he needs to worry about saying something silly, it takes near full blown alcohol poisoning for to get him to that point nowadays, but where he feels loose limbed and pleasantly warm instead.

“We should do it again soon, maybe after that meeting with The Golden Dragons next weekend. Your day’s completely clear otherwise, as is mine. We could go catch a play,” Ed suggests.

“It’s a date,” Oswald quips brazenly.

Ed opens his mouth to reply, but a creaking against the floorboards stops him and diverts their attention instead down the shrouded hallway.

Oswald’s breath catches on nothing as Ed goes to step in front of him, hiding him from view. He fists the back of Ed’s blazer, hoping that, if it came to it, he would have enough strength to pull him out of harm’s way.

He doesn’t have to contemplate it much further however because, out of the darkness, emerges Olga wrapped in a nightgown, her hair in rollers, and holding a baseball bat aloft. Oswald swears under his breath in relief. Maybe they were making more noise than they thought. Her posture relaxes at the sight of them, but her glare intensifies.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Oswald snaps, eyeing the bat with interest.

She stalks closer, spitting rapid fire Russian. Whatever she’s saying certainly _sounds_ angry, but Oswald’s still at the point where he only recognises the odd word or two. She could be wishing them a good night for all he knows. She looks at Ed, her eyes narrowing into slits. Maybe that should be suspicious rather than angry. He latches onto Ed’s arm.

“Well, it’s awfully late,” he says, adding a yawn for good measure. “And we really must be getting some sleep. Sorry for waking you.”

Fumbling with the door, he pulls Ed over the threshold with him by the front of his shirt. He sticks his head back out before closing it fully.

“I’d like pancakes for breakfast, if you don’t mind,” he adds then shuts the door in her face.

Thankfully, the mess he’d made earlier has been sorted. All his clothes likely back on their correct hangers or folded away in his chest of draws, the bed smoothed out and pillows plumped up.

“Honestly,” Oswald grumbles as he flops down onto the bed, bouncing slightly from the force of it. “I don’t know why she’s acting all high and mighty when I know for a _fact_ she’s been sneaking Gabe out of the house at all hours this week. And have I said anything? No. I mean, that’s mainly because I don’t want to even _think_ about what they’ve been getting up to, but still. Anyway, give it ten minutes and you'll be able to escape."

“Think we're a little past that, I'm afraid,” Ed replies. “I was hoping we’d be able to avoid this considering our schedules rarely line up anyway but it seems our hands have been forced.”

“What are you talking about now?” He asks with exasperation, that pleasant buzz having devolved into a pressure behind his eyes.

“We’re engaged,” Ed states. “If she sees that my bed’s been slept in after you dragged me into _your_ room, she’ll definitely have questions.”

Oswald runs a hand across his face. He’s right, of course.

“Hey, don’t worry, you did the right thing,” Ed soothes as he takes a seat next to Oswald, making him tip ever so slightly towards him. “I couldn’t exactly turn around and go back to my own room in front of her either,” he adds with a shrug.

“Then I suppose I should try to find something that will fit you.”

They take turns in Oswald’s en suite bathroom after Oswald manages to fish out a baggy vest from the back of his underwear draw. He lets Ed get freshened up first, taking the opportunity to quickly wriggle into his pyjamas. 

Oswald fumbles with the buttons, his fingers feeling thick and uncoordinated as he tries to slot them into their holes.

“All yours,” Ed says when he comes back out, his bare feet slapping against the floor. Stopping in front of Oswald, he pokes him lightly in the chest. Oswald looks down at where his finger is pressing into the silk of his pyjamas, just above a button. “You’ve done them up wrong.”

Oswald flushes and shoulders past him.

A quick splash of water against his cheeks and gargle of mouthwash later, Oswald finds himself slipping under the cool duvet next to Ed, unable to put off the inevitable any longer. Ed switches off the lamp once his settled, plunging the room into darkness.

It’s not uncomfortable per se, but Oswald’s intimately aware of all his limbs in a way he usually isn’t. He’s too far over, the left side of his body barely on the mattress at all, and his bad leg is already aching from the strain of keeping it straight. What if he talks in his sleep? Drools?

God, this is ridiculous.

“I guess it’s only fair,” Oswald says into the dark. He lets it linger in the air for a moment as he waits for Ed to make a small inquisitive noise, urging him to continue. “I’ve woken up in your bed before. It’s only right you do so in mine, too.”

Ed snorts and just like that, it’s fine. He lets the rigidity melt out of his bones and finally gets comfortable by turning onto his side so he’s facing Ed and curling round his pillow. He can just about make out Ed’s silhouette in the dark, all the dips and curves he’s come to be so familiar with, and lets his flutter closed with a smile.

A delicate touch against his cheek surprises them back open. “Goodnight, Oswald,” Ed whispers.

He’s closer than he was a moment ago.

“Goodnight, Eddie.”

* * *

The birds are singing when he wakes up.

He grumbles in annoyance and half-heartedly attempts to smother his face further into the solid warmth he finds himself pressed up against. What he wouldn’t give to stay in bed all day. No paperwork, no shaking the hands of idiots, no wondering if he should throw away another blood stained shirt or get Olga to try and salvage it.

A soft chuckle makes him freeze.

He tentatively raises his head and looks up through sleep-blurred vision. Ed is sitting propped against the headboard, leisurely flicking through a file as he periodically lifts a mug of coffee up to his lips and takes a distracted sip. Oswald moves a leg, his toes coming into contact with Ed’s bare calf, and automatically shuffles back.

“Morning,” Ed greets softly. His hair is down, fanned across his forehead, with only faint traces of product still visible as a few clumped together strands. “Hope you don’t mind, I usually go over a few things in bed before dragging myself to breakfast.”

“No, that’s fine. I just didn’t think—” _You’d still be here_ , he doesn’t finish out loud.

Ed gestures behind Oswald with his mug. “I brought you up a cup of tea.”

Oswald forces himself up with a groan, his joints cracking loudly like they do most mornings.

Mirroring Ed’s position, he swipes the cup off the bedside table and takes a cautious sip. Ed must have only just gone to fetch it because it's still blisteringly hot. He pulls it away from his mouth with a hiss and attempts to soothe his bottom lip with his tongue, swiping it over the sore flesh a few times before sucking it into his mouth entirely.

“Hey, look at this,” Ed says, nudging Oswald in the side. “Stevie Malone wants you to loan him $150,000 so he can open a bar.”

Oswald leans against Ed’s shoulder and scans the proposal in his hands, Malone’s distinctive signature scrawled across the bottom.

“He already owes Teddy _and_ Sonya for a couple of previous unsuccessful ventures, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ed agrees. “I think it’s upwards of a million now with interest.”

“How on Earth is he still knocking around?” Oswald muses. “I mean kudos to him, frankly, but Jesus Christ.”

“I take it that’s a no?”

“Yes, Ed, that’s a no.”

Ed scribbles something suitably cutting down and Oswald takes another sip of his tea.

Sitting in bed with Ed the morning after what can only be described as a _date_ isn’t how he imagined his week would go. Not that he has any complaints, of course. On the contrary, very little has ever felt so overwhelmingly _right_.

He should have known it was only a matter of time before it all went to hell.


	9. Chapter 9

“I’m going to have to meet you there,” Ed says over the phone.

Oswald’s already well on his way to his meeting with The Golden Dragons. The Bentley rumbles happily along Gotham’s pothole riddled roads, each sudden dip jolting him sharply up and down in his seat. Zsasz remains largely unbothered by the bumpy ride, one leg crossed over the other as he does a crossword balanced precariously on his thigh.

“There’s been at accident at the club,” he goes on to explain. “A decorator fell and cracked his head open.”

Oswald can practically _hear_ him roll his eyes across the staticky connection and allows himself a little smile at the thought of Ed standing passively among the chaos, more inconvenienced than worried over blood already having been spilt over their pristine marble floors.

“He was already on his way to hospital when I got here but the rest of them are threatening to up and leave if there isn’t a safety inspection ASAP.”

“Do you need me to send anyone?” Oswald asks, already mentally cataloguing who is where and whether they can be spared.

Ed sighs. “No, I’ll be f—”

He abruptly interrupts himself to reply to an annoyed, muffled voice in the background. Oswald only manages to catch ‘making us wait’ and ‘utterly ridiculous’, but he gets the gist of it. Ed’s clearly not making too many friends today.

“Do you mind?” Ed hisses. “I am talking to the Mayor. You know, my fiancé? The man _paying_ you? I will be with you in a moment.”

Oswald bites down on his lip to stop from giggling.

“Anyway, as I was _saying_ , I’ll be fine. No goons necessary. It’s mainly paperwork and phone calls that need taking care of. But I may have to make a trip to Gotham General afterwards to make sure the guy isn’t intending to sue us so if I don’t make it to the meeting, that’s why. I’m sorry, Oswald.”

Even though Ed can’t see him, Oswald still finds himself automatically waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t be. It can’t be helped. Will you still be able to make it to the theatre?” he adds hopefully.

Their dinner together last week had marked a shift between them to a level of intimacy that had never been fully broached before. And ever since he’d been able to secure a private box for the two of them for a performance of Phantom of the Opera, well, he hasn’t been able to think of much else.

“Definitely,” Ed assures him. “I’ll just meet you there if I can’t get away any sooner. Is Zsasz with you?” he adds.

Oswald flicks his eyes back up to look at Zsasz. He has the tip of his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.

“Of course.”

“Good. They like him.”

And they do. Weirdly. Must be an assassin thing.

“Don’t worry about us. Just do what you have to.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

Oswald grins and ends the call.

“That boss man #2?” Zsasz pipes up, eyes not leaving his puzzle book even once.

Oswald makes a little noise of affirmation under his breath and leans his head against the window, eyes half lidded as he watches Zsasz scribble something down, an answer clearly having suddenly come to him. “He probably won’t make it to the meeting.”

“No biggy,” Zsasz says with a shrug. “We’ve got this covered, chief.”

Of course they do.

* * *

As he’d so accurately warned, Ed doesn’t make it to the meeting. Oswald’s disappointed in much the same way he often is when Ed isn’t standing beside him, but in the grand scheme of things, it is as Zsasz so eloquently put it, no biggy. The meeting itself goes smoothly and they manage to negotiate a very, _very_ lucrative deal without any guns being drawn. The vicious serrated knife slammed down into the table just shy of Oswald’s fingers when he was perhaps, admittedly, pushing his luck a tad doesn’t count, _obviously_. Once wrapped up, both he and Zsasz are graciously invited along to one of The Golden Dragons’ clubs for a night of God knows what. Zsasz happily takes them up on the offer, arms thrown around the shoulders of two heavily tattooed men whose wide grins are at odds with their otherwise intimidating stature and frankly ridiculous muscles. Oswald’s more than happy to let Zsasz go in his place. He has, after all, other, far more important plans for his evening.

Seeing as the meeting had actually finished earlier than the time they’d allotted for it in their schedules, it’s no surprise that Ed isn’t already there waiting for him when his driver pulls up near the Old Vic theatre. And with the added nuisance of having quell the seemingly imminent revolt threatening to break out at the club, it could be up to an hour until he sees that familiar silhouette emerging from one of Oswald’s cars.

Slipping off his coat and folding it neatly beside him, he unbuttons his suit jacket and settles down into a more comfortable, slouched position.

“Put something on, will you,” he asks his driver and the first few strains of something classical soon begin to filter gently through the speakers.

Oswald pulls a face, nose scrunched up in distaste. “God, Ed’s so pretentious,” he grumbles. “Is _London Calling_ still in here?”

His driver dutifully flips through the CD slots until that familiar pounding intro abruptly replaces elegant violins. Leaning back into the plush leather, Oswald lets Joe Strummer’s voice wash over him.

He people watches for a while; from kids relishing the time spent with overworked parents to teenagers indulging in a bit of well-earned retail therapy now that exam season is finally drawing to a close, everyone’s out enjoying the warm afternoon sun. But Oswald’s never been one to be overly invested in _other_ people’s happiness and boredom eventually forces him to grudgingly swipe up Zsasz’s discarded puzzle book and pen. Before cracking it open and condemning himself to the wrath of his favourite assassin, Oswald slips out his phone and decides to give Ed a quick call. As usual, it goes straight to his voicemail and Oswald’s greeted with the same brief and dismissive recording he’s been trying to get Ed to change for months now.

“Are you going to be much longer? I’m running out of things to occupy myself with,” Oswald whines. Then, lowering his voice but keeping his eyes trained on the man sitting up front adds, “Hurry up before I’m forced to make conversation with Stanley.”

As time passes, the weekend family and shopper crowds slowly begin to thin and are eventually replaced by the 20-somethings boisterously filling up the restaurants, bars and clubs. Oswald eyes the line forming outside one of the closest bars, the loud laughter that manages to penetrates the bulletproof glass like a particularly itchy gnat bite; annoying and impossible to ignore. It’s _grating_. 

He tries Ed’s number again, this time leaving a more clipped, “Just fire them all. We’ll hire an entire new team,” after, once again, getting nothing but his voicemail. “Pay them off if need be,” he adds before petulantly throwing the phone down onto the floor and crossing his arms.

But it continues to get darker around him, Gotham’s nightlife springing into full awareness the longer he waits. Those already well on their way to ending up face down in a gutter for the night blearily peer in through the Bentley’s tinted windows in an attempt to catch a glimpse of whoever’s inside. His driver dutifully chases off each small group that gathers, but Oswald barely notices. The spat curses, the braying laughter, the slammed door. None of it registers.

With his phone now practically glued to his ear, on his third unsuccessful attempt to get through to Ed, he lets slip a worried, “Are you okay? Please let me know what’s going on. I _need_ to know what’s going on.” 

It isn’t until the audience he and Ed were meant to be part of starts to filter out from the theatre’s thrown open double doors that it hits home that Ed has stood him up. Anger simmers threateningly just beneath the surface of his forced calm. He curls his fingers deep into the leather seat, marring the smooth surface with nail shaped indents. The tickets burn a hole in his breast pocket, heavier than they have any right to be.

“Boss?” His driver inquires warily and Oswald meets his eyes in the rear view mirror.

Oswald inhales deeply and squares his shoulders, chin cocked up. “He may have got caught up at the hospital.”

His driver nods, understanding the statement for what it really is, and pulls away from the parking spot.

* * *

Before approaching the hospital reception desk, Oswald attempts to school his features into something as close to friendly as he can realistically manage given the circumstances. Hospital receptionists are notoriously strict when it comes to giving out information about patients to non-family members and rightly so, but considering Oswald doesn’t even know the man’s _name_ , well, he’s at a major disadvantage. He doesn’t particularly want to be stuck with coordinating any damage control tonight, he’s far too highly strung for that, so he’s going to have to play this perfectly. The hastily purchased flowers from the gift shop should help his case, at least.

“Afternoon,” he begins pleasantly, squinting at the receptionist’s name tag, “Audrey.”

The woman behind the desk is dressed in a way that can only be classed as appropriate for the long, gruelling hours that working in a hospital necessitates. With a white cropped cardigan over a cotton candy pink scoop neck dress, comfort melds with formality seamlessly to give her an air of approachability. Likewise, her hair is swept up into a high ponytail and the delicate mousey brown wisps escaping from behind her ears succeed in softening her appearance even further. 

She smiles warmly up at him and Oswald’s struck with the thought that it’s probably the same one she gives everyone regardless of occupation or status. He was right to play this the way he is; friendly, apologetic, and, ultimately, at _her_ mercy. Give or take a bit of emotional manipulation.

“Mayor Cobblepot, an absolute pleasure. What can I do for you tonight?”

He leans his cane against the desk and matches her smile. “I believe you have one of my decorators in. Poor man had an accident at my club a few hours ago. Head injury, if my Chief of Staff was correct. I came as soon as I could.”

She’s already nodding, “Oh, yes, Mr. Allens. Poor dear took a nasty knock,” she says as she pulls up his updated notes on the desktop computer in front of her. “Looks like we’ll be keeping him in for observation for tonight.”

“May I see him? I wish to offer my _sincere_ apologies and see if we can get something sorted out in terms of compensation.”

“Well, visiting hours are over—”

“It's just that I feel simply dreadful and I’m sure he does, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if the silly man is wondering if I’ll end up firing him or something equally ridiculous. I just want to alleviate some of his fears.”

She glances around, the usual day-time hustle and bustle of a hospital ward smothered into something less urgent and more lethargic by the awkward hour, then down to the small bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand. Noticing her focus, Oswald reaches down to rub at his knee and feigns a wince.

“You’re lucky it’s quiet at the moment,” she lightly chides and pushes herself up. She takes a moment to stretch, groaning in relief when something audibly pops back into place. Oswald can sympathise. “Okay, follow me.”

“You’re such a wonderful boss to do this,” she says as they make their way through the wards, making sure to smile at and greet a passing group of nurses. “I’m sure you’re incredibly busy.”

“You’d be surprised,” he says bitterly.

They soon come to a stop outside a room indistinguishable from the rest.

“He’s just through here,” she says and gently touches Oswald’s arm. “Take your time.”

As soon as she turns to leave, he lets the false worry slip from his face and immediately replaces it with a comfortable sneer. Opening the door, Oswald shuffles into the room. He makes sure to flick the lock and pull the blinds behind him before dismissively depositing the flowers into the trashcan by the door.

The man currently occupying the room’s lone bed is deathly pale, his hair sticking out in uneven tufts from between the tight bandage round his head, a red smudge of blood staining the otherwise pristine white. His eyes are unfocused when he looks up, eyelids drooping every other second, but they widen upon realising just who has stormed into his hospital room.

“M-mayor C-cobblepot,” he stutters. The heart monitor he’s attached to spikes dramatically.

Oswald stalks forward and grabs the man by the front of his hospital gown. He vaguely registers a ripping sound as he pulls him up half-way out of his bed.

“You have _ruined_ my evening,” he growls. “If you think you’ll _ever_ work in this city again then you’re sorely mistaken. Now, where is he?”

If the man was pale before, then he’s practically translucent now, the dark smudges under his eyes and mottled purple peeking out from beneath his hairline emphasised grotesquely by the sharp contrast in colour. He attempts to pull out of Oswald’s grasp, uncomfortable by the proximity of irate his boss, but Oswald holds firm, stronger than the energy depleted man in front of him.

“Who, sir?” He questions desperately, unable to prise Oswald’s fingers from his gown.

“Ed— Mr. Nygma.”

The man frowns, confusion momentarily replacing fear, and manages to meet Oswald’s penetrating stare for the first time since he’d been wrenched in close against his will. He lets his fingers rest weakly over Oswald’s balled fists, struggle forgotten.

“Mr. Nygma? Why would he be here?”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “To sort out your sorry mess of course,” he says, jostling him slightly for emphasis.

“But I haven’t seen him at all today.”

The squeaking wheels of a trolley being rolled past, the harried footsteps of someone on their way to deliver test results, deep conversation peppered with complex words and a regretful tone; all those familiar sounds of a busy hospital morph together to become nothing but white noise. 

Oswald lets go of the man’s gown, staggering awkwardly backwards into the visitor’s chair. It tips precariously on its two back legs briefly before Oswald forces it back down onto all four so he can brace himself against it.

“Sir?” The man asks with obvious concern, throwing the thin bedsheet half-off his legs as if ready to come to Oswald’s aid.

“He… he never turned up?”

“No,” he says, going to shake his head but thinking better of it. “Should he have?”

Oswald doesn’t need to hear anymore. He thunders down the corridor, barging doctors, nurses and probably even some patients out of his way.

Back at the front desk, the woman from before is still thankfully there. She smiles when she sees him approach, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of a few more minutes of conversation instead of pouring over tables, spreadsheets and patient records.

“All good?” She asks pleasantly, leaning ever so slightly forward in her seat.

“Did Mr. Nygma drop by at all today?”

She blinks up at him, momentarily thrown by the non-sequitur. “Your partner? Not when I’ve been on duty, no.”

“You haven’t been here all day, then?”

She laughs. “God, no. Kamala usually does the afternoon shift on Saturday’s but her partner went into labour on the way here, so we—”

“I don’t care!” Oswald shrieks. She jumps, clearly not expecting such a sudden and drastic change in the previously mild-mannered Mayor. “Check. Check if he was here.”

“Sir—”

“This is urgent!”

She slowly nods, face tight. Any affection she may have felt towards him evaporating. She expertly pulls up the visitor list for day, eyes scanning down the list of names. Oswald holds his breath.

“He’s not on the list.”

Dread, as it turns out, is similar to drowning. It’s slow, agonising, and, ultimately, leaves you breathless, gasping for air that just isn’t there. Oswald should know, he has a lot of experience with drowning.

“The club,” he screams at his driver once he makes it make to the car. “Take me to the club. Now!”

* * *

The mere sight of The Iceberg Lounge alone is still enough to take his breath away. Not necessarily because of what it looks like, but what it represents. A future.

Inside is still very much a building site, what with the large sheets thrown over every delicate marble surface, stacks of paint tins piled up in in one corner, and discarded tools ready to be picked up again come morning. But there _are_ signs of progress. The once stained beige walls are now a pristine ice blue and, after much deliberation, his impressive stage and large water feature are now one in the same; his performers will seem as if they’re floating on the glittering surface as more cascades down behind them. And his bar. _Oh_ , his bar. Now extended further than it once was, a large glass display cabinet follows along the wall behind it. He already has on order various exotic and grossly expensive drinks to fill up the shelves. It’s not hard to picture how it will all look once completely finished and he allows himself a small, dazed smile, entirely caught up in the daydream, until something catches his eye. 

His world tips and he staggers a couple of steps forward, his cane the only thing keeping him from collapsing completely onto the cold marble floor.

Ed’s brief case lies open in the middle of the room, his papers strewn around it as if someone had frantically rummaged through them. 

He drops to his knees, barely registering the pain at all, and gently touches the papers. There’s half of a faint footprint smudged onto one, clearly left by a boot rather than a brogue or an oxford.

Ed isn’t simply missing. He’s been taken.

Which means coming in alone was a mistake. A rookie one, at that.

Oswald slowly gets to his feet as quietly as he can manage, keeping his bottom lip clamped between his teeth to stem any whimpers of pain that threaten to spill out. He shuffles towards the rear wall and puts his back to it so he has full sight of the main ballroom and, crucially, all entrances. Now having the wall as support, he forgoes his cane in favour of keeping one hand under his jacket and on his gun.

“Right, think, Oswald, _think_ ,” he whispers.

There’s no blood which means whoever took him is likely to be highly skilled. It takes precision and experience to _not_ spill blood. They left his briefcase which could mean they were after Ed himself rather than any information he may have been carrying. Also, Ed’s tall, a _killer_ , and his time spent with Oswald has only helped to hone his skills. It would probably take at least two people to get the jump on him—

His breath hitches.

Slipping out his phone, Oswald quickly dials the personal number Barbara had covertly shared with him over cocktails and a particularly satisfying bitch session a few weeks ago.

“Yes?” she answers breathlessly. There’s another voice in the background. The two of them share a giggle.

“Is that Tabitha?”

“Why Ozzie, I didn’t think you were into that."

“Just answer me,” he pleads. “Is Tabitha with you, right now?”

“Yes, she is. And you’re interrupting,” she sing-songs the last word.

“Yeah, so fuck off, Cobblepot,” Tabitha growls into the phone.

“Down, kitty cat,” Barbara admonishes lightly. It’s teasing, but Oswald is able to pick out the hidden warning just beneath the surface that a month ago he wouldn’t have been able to recognise.

“And Butch, do you know where Butch is?”

“What is with the twenty questions, Oswald?” she’s beginning to sound annoyed now, her tone losing its easy fondness. “What’s wrong?”

“Butch, Barbara!”

“He’s dead to the world collapsed over the bar if you _must_ know. Why? Wha–”

He flips the phone shut, cutting her off mid-sentence.

* * *

Sirens is pitch black when he arrives. No lights, no music, no movement. Not that he expected anything less. With Tabitha back in town, the club was bound to take a back seat for a couple of nights as the two women get reacquainted with each other. Any other night and he’d _almost_ feel sorry about interrupting their reunion, if only for Barbara’s sake, at least.

“Open up!” he screeches into the sharp night air, banging both fists heavily against the door. Each thud reverberates up his arms, resulting in an almost immediate fuzziness around the base of his neck.

“I know you’re in there, Barbara!”

He pauses briefly when a light flicks on above him, a previously darkened window erupting into a bright yellow, and waits for a couple of seconds before continuing to bang, quicker now, with less time between each thump. Eventually, he hears the password-coded lock buzz in release and presses his forehead against the door in relief.

Barbara cracks the door open to just a sliver so all Oswald can see of her is one narrowed eye and a flash of golden hair.

“Would you keep it down,” she hisses.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you were sleeping,” he says and pushes the door open fully to barge past her. She’s forced against the wall briefly but quickly shakes it off and stalks after Oswald, hot on his heels.

“Hey!”

“Where are they?” he demands as he makes his way through the main club area and up the stairs to the smaller, private bar where Barbara does most of her less than legal dealings.

“Who?”

He whips around and points a finger in her face. “Do _not_ play coy with me, woman.”

Her face hardens. That… may have been a mistake, Oswald muses as he looks her over. 

She seems smaller like this, no heels or spray in her hair to make it appear as if she’s towering over everyone else. She pulls her clearly hastily thrown on sheer robe tightly round herself, the fluffy hem just brushing against her thighs. It’s about as awkward as he’s ever seen her and considering how _he_ feels without his suits, he understands the need for battle armour, in whatever form that may take. Hell, she’s _barefoot_. He never thought the sight of someone’s _toes_ could be so disarming.

He sighs and runs a distracted hair through his hair. “I’m not here to kill them,” he assures her. “Something’s happened. Please, Barbara. I need to talk to them. It’s serious.”

Oswald watches as her eyes dart all over his face, trying to decipher if he’s lying. And _technically_ he’s not.

She huffs. “It’s fine,” she says loudly.

With the proverbial ‘all clear’, Butch pops up from behind the bar and Tabitha appears from somewhere behind Oswald to stand beside Barbara. She too is wearing very little, but looks just as dangerous as she always does, if not more so. The razor sharp straightness of her hair and deep black corset are a striking contrast to Barbara’s loose curls hair and baby blue negligee.

Oswald draws his gun from the back of his trousers and points it at Butch, right between his eyes. Tabitha too goes to reach for something, from _where_ Oswald has no idea, but Barbara grabs her arm, halting her movements.

“I thought you said it was fine!” Butch directs to Barbara. His cheeks are alcohol-pinked and his shirt wrinkled, he’d probably been drowning his sorrows in an attempt to forget that the love of his life was back in the arms of the love of _her_ life. Pathetic.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

And fuck, he’s getting _sick_ of having this same goddamn conversation over and over again.

“Ed!”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“You may be dumb, Butch, but you’re not _that_ dumb. So don’t try and play it. Now, where is he?”

“Are you going to just stand there and let him do this?” Butch furiously directs to Barbara.

Barbara sighs dramatically, clearly having been enjoying the show. “There’s only one person I’d tolerate barging into my club in the middle of the night brandishing a gun, but even he is walking on very, _very_ thin ice,” she directs pointedly at Oswald. “So you had better explain yourself right now or I won’t be responsible for Tabby’s actions.”

“Ed is missing,” he says, his voice cracking. His gun dips slightly from where he has it suspended in the air before he quickly straightening his arm back out, locking in place. “And considering these two happen to be back in town the same day he disappears, well, it’s all a little convenient, don’t you think?”

Butch laughs cruelly. “Maybe he finally got what he wanted and split. I’d check your bank accounts if I were you,” he spits with a sneer.

Oswald’s eyes flash in anger. “How _dare_ you even imp—”

A sharp clap draws their attention back to Barbara.

“Right, enough!” She commands in a way that isn’t at all diminished her current state of undress. “Have either of you done anything to Ed? Because I swear, you _will_ live to regret it if you have.”

Butch looks away, unable to meet her eyes, but Tabitha lifts her chin up defiantly.

“ _Unfortunately_ , no, we haven’t,” she admits.

They stare at each other down, silently having their own conversation through pointed looks and narrowed eyes.

“Okay,” Barbara eventually relents.

It’s slight, barely even there, but Oswald notices Tabitha relaxes, too.

“You believe them?” He asks with disbelief.

“I do.”

“Then where does that leave me, Barbara?” He screeches.

He feels himself unravelling, fear giving way to full blown hysteria, what’s left of his mask finally slipping to reveal the broken man hiding beneath. He catches a glimpse of himself in one of Barbara’s many mirrors and he’s shocked at what he sees. He’s never looked worse. Make-up smudged from balled up fists, hair limp against his head, clothes askew. He probably looked better after dragging his water sodden body out of Gotham docks. He jumps when Barbara gently touches his cheek, her fingertips warm against his cold skin. He hadn't even heard her approach.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’ll help you,” Barbara soothes, pausing in thought. “ _We’ll_ help you,” she amends.

“What? Oh for crying out loud—” Butch whines.

“It’s the least you can do,” Barbara snaps. “Think of it as a way to get back into Oswald’s good books,” she adds sweetly.

“And why should I do that, huh? After what that creepy bean pole did?” Butch shouts as bullishly as always. After all these years, the man still has no class.

“Needn’t I remind you that it was _you_ who betrayed Ozzie,” Barbara counters. “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, Butch. Nygma may have set you up, but he wouldn’t have been able to if you weren’t willing.”

“Fuck,” Butch mumbles to himself, knowing she’s right.

Sensing his resolve cracking, Oswald slips the gun away and hobbles closer. “You do this and we’ll call it square. I’ll conveniently forget your dramatic and bumbling betrayal as if it was just a deeply unsatisfying mutual dream, never to be spoken of again.”

Butch eyes him critically, trying to gauge his angle, to see if he’s being honest.

“I want your full protection.”

Tabitha comes as close to spluttering as she probably ever will. “You’re actually going to go along with this?”

Butch ignores her for now, too focused on getting a good deal out of a bad situation. “And a way back in. I don’t expect my old position, but I want to be involved with the gang again in some capacity.”

Oswald hadn’t expected anything less and holds out his hand. “Deal.”

Butch hesitates for a moment before gripping it and directing his gaze over Oswald’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to be on the run forever, baby,” he says to Tabitha.

She scoffs, clearly disappointed, and Butch’s face falls.

“And what do I get out of this?” She asks.

“Well, considering how much you mean to _her_ ,” he says, gesturing to Barbara, “I won’t kill you. I think you’ll find that’s more than generous considering I have every right to.”

“Am I supposed to be thankful?” Tabitha sneers.

“Yes!” He shrieks and petulantly stamps his foot. “You should!”

“Wait, I need to know that you won’t go after her, too,” Butch suddenly interjects desperately, as if only just remembering Oswald and Tabitha’s… tumultuous history.

“I can handle myself,” Tabitha points out.

“Renegotiating our deal already? How very _you_ , Butch,” Oswald drawls.

“It’s this or nothing.”

Oswald throws his hands up into the air. “Well I haven’t yet, have I? Stands to reason I won’t any time soon, either. If I wanted her dead, she’d be dead.”

Tabitha snorts in amusement and Oswald throws her a glare.

“Right, now that’s all sorted,” Barbara begins brightly, then, turning back to Oswald, adds softly “Were you driven?”

Oswald nods miserably and she gently squeezes his arm. “That’s good. You should get home and try to rest—”

“Oh, yes, because I’m going to be able to do _that_ knowing Ed’s…” He trails off, choking on a sob.

Barbara grimaces. “Okay, poor choice of words, but you _do_ need to get your best men up to speed on the situation. Come on, Ozzie, you know this,” she chides lightly.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re right. God, of course you’re right.”

He needs to tell Zsasz, see if his informants have heard anything, instruct them to keep their ears to the ground if they _haven’t_ , maybe pull them out and get them dealing with this instead… There’s a lot to do. But knowing he won’t have to deal with this mess on his own is, at least, some comfort.

“I often am,” Barbara simpers.

“You’re not going to walk me to my car at least?” He grumbles childishly. Barbara raises an eyebrow and gestures to her thin negligee. “Fair enough,” he concedes wearily, the last few hours finally catching up to him.

He grudgingly gives Butch a nod, who seems to surprise even himself by echoing it, then turns to Tabitha. They stare each other down. God, he hates her. It’s so… so _visceral_. But that hate pales in comparison to the love he feels for Ed.

He swallows thickly and squares his shoulders, head tilted ever so slightly upwards so he can look her dead in the eyes. “If you find out who took him before I do, then you have my permission to give that little whip of yours a work out.”

It clearly wasn’t what she was expecting him to say but, to her credit, she masks it well and is soon grinning at the thought of unleashing hell on any snivelling, grovelling men that happen to end up between her and Ed.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He nods again and turns to leave the same way he’d stormed in, one hand raised weakly in a half-hearted farewell. But just before he’s fully out of earshot, already halfway down the stairs, he hears Tabitha again, her voice not purposely soft enough in a rare show of empathy, but not as loud as she would likely be if she was being deliberately spiteful either.

“You’re probably right, Butch, Nygma’s _got_ to be pulling one over the poor bastard. I almost feel sorry for him.”

He has to support himself against the wall as the weight of her words settle against his shoulders, the possible truth behind them devastatingly heavy.

“No,” Barbara says, uncharacteristically serious. “I don’t think he is.”


	10. Chapter 10

Time seems to move slower without Ed.

It crawls, lethargic and heavy as if caught in thick molasses, so different from when he’s by Oswald’s side, where he often finds himself desperately trying to cling onto each second before they slip through his fingers. Nothing has ever convinced Oswald of time being an illusion, a _construct_ , more than how differently it passes depending on his proximity to Ed.

So it really comes as no surprise to him that on the third day of screaming his throat raw in grief it instead feels like weeks since he saw him last.

Despite Oswald and Barbara both having their best men out scouring the city, they actually have very little to show for it. Every promising lead has gone the same way; petering out into nothing without even a whiff of Ed’s cologne caught in the air for their troubles.

Having an extra pair and a half of hands at his disposal has been the only silver lining. Oswald would never go as far as to say working with Butch again has been _nice_ , but having him back in his life during what has been an undeniably difficult time has certainly been a comfort. Like a threadbare blanket from your childhood that has sentimental value over any real practical use.

Of course, as far as everyone else is concerned, their tentative truce simply doesn’t exist. In fact, Oswald hasn’t actually seen beauty and the beast since that fateful night he stormed into Sirens. As much as Oswald hates to admit it, he isn’t universally adored by Gotham’s shadier inhabitants. From career criminals who had their hopes of gaining a greater monopoly over the city dashed by Oswald’s own ascent to power, to the pettier scum of the earth types their line of work inevitably tends to attract; people that don’t like the company he keeps, his sexuality, his disability, his background. And if _those_ people are still under the impression that Butch and Tabitha are out for his blood, then there’s more of a chance they may let a little nugget of information slip in front of them.

As the third day of Ed being missing draws to a close, Oswald finds himself sitting by the mansion’s landline waging a war with himself as to whether to get the GCPD involved. Though the department often works with him in a way a city’s police force has no choice _but_ to when it comes to their mayor, very few members of the GCPD extend the same courtesy and respect to Ed. In fact, Oswald wouldn’t be surprised if Ed ended up getting caught in the crossfire if he got the GCPD involved. It would certainly be the perfect excuse to rid themselves of him once and for all.

But then there’s Jim. He’d surely put aside his personal feelings in the face of an innocent man suffering, right? Well, somewhat innocent. Innocent in _this_ particular situation, anyway. As far as Oswald’s aware. Regardless, despite his and Ed’s history, Jim is very rarely able to resist being the hero.

Oswald buries his head in his hands. Even with all the resources being both Gotham’s mayor _and_ its criminal kingpin gives him, he’s never felt so helpless. What use is power when you can’t do anything with it?

“Boss,” a gruff voice announces tentatively.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he looks up blearily at Gabe. He’s visibly harried, with stains all down the front of his untucked shirt from wolfing down his lunch in the cramped space of a car’s driver seat. “You’ve got a couple of visitors.”

He steps aside to reveal Selina Kyle and another girl, a redhead, still young but definitely older than her shorter companion. She’s looking around the room with keen interest, gaze not stopping on any one thing for too long. Her stylish and clearly very _expensive_ emerald green shift dress doesn’t quite mesh with the childlike curiosity in her eyes.

Selina is characteristically unaffected, her thumbs stuck through her belt loops in a slight slouch as she too coolly surveys the room. The sight of her mud flecked boots, scuffed leather jacket, and black fingerless gloves is surprisingly grounding.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Selina eventually allows.

Oswald blinks owlishly at her. “It’s literally no different from the last time you were here.”

Surprise briefly flits across her face before she draws her brow down into a confused frown. “Really? Huh. Looks lived it.”

His chest clenches painfully and he runs his hand across his face. “What do you want?” He mumbles miserably into his palm.

“We’ve got some information for ya,” Selina says with a grin and nudges the other girl in front of her. She stumbles forward as if not quite used to the length of her legs and throws Selina a pout. 

“Selina,” she whines, drawing out the vowels childishly. Selina merely shrugs in response and wanders over to the window to perch on the ledge, one leg drawn up under her chin, the other left dangling so her foot just brushes the floor.

“And you are?” Oswald asks tiredly.

“Ivy Pepper,” she says with an unspoken _duh_ at the end.

“So what’s this information you have for me, Ivy Pepper? And just a warning, it’d better be good because I really, _really_ don’t have much patience at the moment.”

She nods along as if in agreement, blissfully unaware of the threat it is. “I saw your husband.”

“Fiancé,” he corrects automatically. Then, upon realising what she just said, awkwardly surges up from his seat to grab her by her arms before she can step away in surprise. “Wait, you saw him? Where?” He questions desperately.

Selina’s by them in an instant, as quiet and graceful as a cat. “Hey,” she growls as she prises his hands off her. “Back off.”

She gives him a firm, open palmed push against his chest that has him stumbling back a couple of steps and positions herself so she’s standing in front of Ivy like some sort of bodyguard.

Unconcerned, Ivy bends down to hook her chin over Selina’s shoulder, putting them cheek to cheek. “It’s okay, he’s worried. It’s sweet,” she coos. Selina rolls her eyes and wrenches away to flop down into Oswald’s vacated seat, fight draining away. “I have this guy who supplies me with exotic plants, right? Most of what I need isn’t readily available through legal means and it was just by chance someone I scammed a few weeks ago had –”

“Get to the point,” he growls through gritted teeth, his fingers itching to reach out and shake her once again.

She huffs in annoyance at the interruption. “ _Anyway_. He doesn’t live in the best of places. Area attracts all sorts. I was just arriving at our drop-off point, err, Tuesday? Tuesday. And saw these two suits bundling some tall, skinny guy into their van. I intended to steer well clear, forget I saw anything, until I heard about your situation on the grapevine. Put two and two together and, well, here I am.”

She grins, her arms stretched out theatrically wide. 

Oswald stares at her.

“It’s not much, but it’s something,” he finally allows. 

He grabs his coat from where he’d thrown it down next to him and hastily pulls it on without even batting an eyelid at the creases that would usually have him stomping upstairs to switch it out for something else.

“We’re going to Sirens,” he says and starts to head towards the door, barely taking a few steps before Selina jumps up to block his way, her boots squeaking against the wood flooring in her haste.

“No way,” Selina states, hands braced on both sides of the door frame. “We’ve done our civic duty for the year.”

Oswald clenches his jaw as they stare each other down. She cocks her head up defiantly, he narrows his eyes. After a few moments, he swivels round to face Ivy who is watching the stand-off with thinly veiled delight. “You come with me to tell Barbara everything you know and I will personally see to it that you get any plant you want.”

Her eyes widen fractionally in awe, all the plants she hasn’t been able to get a hold of because they’re too poisonous, too expensive, too rare suddenly, _deliciously_ within grasp. “Deal.”

Selina’s arms drop in betrayal. “Ivy!”

One down, one to go. 

He turns back to Selina. “And you,” he begins, looking her up and down in consideration. Selina’s simpler. She has no interest in clothes, jewellery or power, too used to surviving rather than living. “Help me and I’ll pay you. Any amount you want within reason.”

She scrunches up her nose in thought, visibly weighing up the pros and cons of money in hand versus getting tangled up in something she has no real stake in.

“Fine,” she eventually relents.

* * *

Having only been open for an hour or so, Sirens has yet to see its usual evening crowds.

A few lonely punters are sporadically dotted around, men so eager for the night’s entertainment to start that they’ve left their doting wives and annoying brats earlier than they usually allow themselves to. As such, Barbara sits at the bar, her services not yet needed.

She raises an eyebrow at the mismatched group; intrigued, naturally, given Oswald’s tendency to surround himself with the same faces, but not enough to haul herself up from the barstool just yet. 

“Not sure how pleased Nygma will be to know you’ve adopted in his absence,” she drawls with amusement as her gaze lazily swings from one girl to the other. But the closer they get, the easier she’s able to take in the tightly pinched seriousness of his face beneath the low lights of the club. She gently puts down her drink and stands up to greet him with her usual kiss to each cheek, the picture of normality.

“Follow me,” she says close to his ear, voice lowered, and slips her arm though Oswald’s as the girls follow obediently behind.

Once alone in the safety of her private bar with the doors locked tight and lackeys on guard, Oswald tugs Ivy in front of Barbara. “Tell her what you know,” he urges.

Ivy looks even less sure of herself in front of Barbara, a relatively common occurrence when it comes to his blonde bombshell of a friend, but she manages to lift her chin and repeat what she told Oswald both succinctly and eloquently.

“I thought this may happen,” Barbara eventually says once Ivy is finished.

Oswald blanches as the icy cold tendrils of betrayal begin to slither down his spine. “You know who they are? Why am I only just hearing about this?”

Barbara shrugs, her usual poise instead replaced by a level of awkwardness she rarely allows to surface for fear of being seen less than what she is; vicious and calculating.

“It hasn’t been a problem until now. Low-level nonsense, mainly. Inheritance stuff. Wives against husbands, siblings against parents. Way I saw it was if a few of the Italians or Irish ended up levelling themselves we’d be there to pick up the pieces. So I _gracefully_ turned a blind eye.”

“But this is _my_ city,” Oswald whines with a stamp of his foot.

“Oh, honey,” she says, gently cupping his cheek. “Not everything that goes on in this hellhole of a city comes knocking at your front door to introduce itself. Subjects keep secrets from their king because doing so gives them the allusion of freedom. Which means _you_ need to let them have their extortion, their drug deals, and their back alley forgery. It’s only when all that starts to threaten your position directly that you need to worry.”

He gestures widely around them as if to say ‘well, what do you call this, then?’

“Yes, I know,” she allows with a small huff, dropping her hand. “Position thoroughly threatened. And to answer your question, no, I don’t know who they are but I’ve been… monitoring the situation.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “So what _do_ you know?” He says slowly so as not to let his temper get the best of him.

“Not much,” Barbara admits with a sigh. Slinking round to the other side of the bar, she plucks two glasses and a crystal decanter from the mirrored display case. “Ladies?” She asks, shaking the bottle lightly in their direction, making the contents slosh up against the insides.

Selina opens her mouth to reply, but Oswald cuts her off with a firm, “ _No_.”

“What a rip,” Selina mutters to Ivy who nods along in agreement.

Smiling lightly to herself, Barbara places both glasses in front of Oswald, one for her and one for him, and decants the amber liquid just as professionally as any of her barmen. “No one knows who they are or even where they’re operating out of but that’s largely because no one’s attempted to track them down yet. As I said, it’s all been very minor. Helpful, even. What do you know about Stevie Malone?”

“Wants to open a bar, right? Asked me for money recently.”

Barbara snorts. “Likewise. Naturally, I refused, what with his track record and all. But guess what? Old Baloney Maloney has suddenly got a shiny new bar. He’s even managed to pay back Teddy and Sonya.”

That’s… a lot of money to suddenly come into.

“His proposal was already at least two months old by the time Ed and I looked it over,” he pauses momentarily, lost in the memory of waking up next to Ed. “You think—”

“I know.”

Reaching under the bar, she fishes out a sleek black burner phone. “Butch? There’s been a development. You know Malone?” She cocks her head to the side, Butch’s voice faint through the speaker. “Turns out he may know who has Nygma. Fancy paying him a visit?”

The thought of this whole nightmare _finally_ being over leaves Oswald jittery; eager to shout and stab and kick and shoot. “Tell him to pick me up, I’ll go with him,” he insists after throwing his scotch back in one go.

Barbara presses the phone against her chest and clicks her tongue in disapproval. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can’t have the two of you being seen together, it could blow our cover.”

Oswald rolls his eyes as he slips his gun out of its holster to check whether the chamber is still full. Satisfied, he snaps it back shut. “Then I’ll go instead.”

She eyes him critically. He may not be looking his best by his _or_ her standards, but he’s still armed up to his teeth, with hitmen, mercenaries and assassins all but a phone call away if necessary. “Maybe you’re right,” she relents. “The sort of… persuasion we need should probably come from the top. Scratch that, Butch, Ozzie’s going to meet him inst—"

“Wait,” Selina interrupts suddenly. He jolts in surprise, automatically half-unsheathing the dagger from his cane. He’d forgotten about the girls.

Oblivious to how close she had come to being skewered, Selina turns to Ivy, a wicked smile transforming her soft features into something a little deadlier. “I’ve got an idea.”

* * *

Unwilling to sit down and potentially wreck his Tom Ford three-piece, Oswald stands awkwardly in the middle of what he assumes must be Ivy’s lounge.

Everywhere he looks there are plants; hanging from the high ceiling, creeping in through the cracks of shattered windows, springing up from between the floorboards. There is barely a single surface not covered with pots, planters, vases, and trays.

Why a mansion estate which practically _screams_ old money has been left abandoned for a teenager to find and make her own is anyone’s guess. Maybe there was simply no one left to inherit it, the last Lord or Lady of the manor dying before producing an heir. Of course, there’s always the possibility of a grisly murder leaving it perpetually empty, with schoolyard gossip conjuring up ghostly figures and bleeding walls that chase away any prospective buyers before they even set foot inside. It would certainly account for the faint smell of rotting death that the heavy floral aroma permeating throughout the house can’t quite mask.

Selina has no qualms about making herself at home, flopping down onto the faded brown leather couch and causing a fine dusting of soil to dislodge itself from between the cushion’s crevices.

Oswald was suitably sceptical of Selina’s claim that Ivy would be able to get any information they desired from Malone without having to lift a finger, especially when all it would supposedly take was a whiff of her perfume. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he’d already be at Malone’s new bar, a shattered bottle pressed threateningly to his jugular as he demanded to know where Ed was. But between emptying his pockets at their feet and having him raise his own gun to his temple, the unlucky bodyguard Barbara ended up calling in to be their guinea pig had Oswald thoroughly convinced of Ivy’s talents.

Frantically retrieving a handkerchief from his back pocket, Oswald just about smothers an explosive sneeze, the pollen heavy air playing havoc with allergies he never even knew he had.

“You sure she can handle this?” he asks Selina through a sniff.

“She’ll be fine,” she answers dismissively.

Oswald rolls his eyes skywards and squirrels the soiled fabric away. “That’s not what I’m asking. And nor do I care. Will she be able to get him here without blowing her cover? Her… _potions_ may work but she still needs to be able to act the part of besotted floosy _before_ putting him under her spell. Anyone could be watching. Even whoever took Ed.”

Visibly uncomfortable, Selina drops her hand from where she had been circling the petals of a large flowering plant drooping over the arm of the couch. “Yeah, she’s pretty good at getting creeps to do what she wants,” she mutters.

Oswald hums in acknowledgement, satisfied for the time being. Selina knows Ivy far better than he does, after all.

“Malone shouldn’t be too difficult of a mark. I doubt anyone even remotely attractive has even looked his way in, oh, about thirty years? Maybe after all this is done I’ll give her a job,” he muses.

Discomfort forgotten, Selina eagerly sits forward, her hands clasped tightly against her knees. “Really?”

“I thought you’d put up more of a fuss,” Oswald says with a raised eyebrow.

“She’s going to be doing it either way. I’d rather she be working with someone than doing it on her own,” Selina admits with a small shrug. “And you’re not so bad, I guess.”

Oswald snorts inelegantly. “I’m flattered.”

A grin breaks across her face and Oswald forces himself to turn away before he can match it with his own, instead deciding to shuffle over to the vines wrapped around the nearest door frame to inspect the heavy buds hanging down overhead.

He pokes at one with vague interest, the tightly closed petals giving way easily beneath his finger. It’s only when he goes to pull away that one of the buds begins to open. He holds his breath as a translucent gunk oozes down from the flower, barely missing his shoe as it drops down onto the floor in stringy strands.

He jumps back, covering his mouth and nose at the sudden sickly sweet smell.

“Is this… healthy?” He questions, waving his hand around the room.

“I doubt she has anything too dangerous in here. She has the so-la-ri-um for that.”

She says the word ‘solarium’ carefully, as if having been told it over and over yet still not quite confident about how to pronounce it properly, stuttering and overemphasising. Oswald smothers a smile.

“Comforting,” he says with a quick glance at his watch.

Without much to do other than simply wait, they spend the next half an hour making up increasingly ridiculous names for the plants and flowers around them, each one delivered with a suitably haughty, posh accent. Selina is quick on her feet in every possible meaning of the phrase, her responses as sharp as her lock picking skills and as precise as her feet. 

The easy back and forth proves to be a welcome calm before the proverbial storm, and by the time they hear the distant crunch of tyres on gravel, he’s ready.

* * *

Malone is a snivelling looking man, more ‘70s car salesman than hardened gangster what with his ill-fitting suit and slicked back hair. But it’s that very same veil of mediocrity that has successfully kept him off the bottom of Gotham harbour so Oswald knows not to underestimate him too much. Even high on whatever concoction Ivy has him on, he still oozes professional slime ball and Oswald feels a pang of sympathy as he’s reminded of the young dancers employed at Mooney’s Nightclub that were too young and eager to impress to know they were allowed to push grabby, sweaty hands away.

A light clinking sound draws Oswald’s attention to the car keys dangling loosely from Malone’s hand. “You let him drive you here while under the influence of… whatever the hell this is?” He says gesturing to the dopey love-struck look slapped across Malone’s face.

“It doesn’t affect memory or coordination. Just…” Ivy cocks her head to the side, her nose scrunched up as she searches for the right word. “Control.”

“Cobblepot?” Malone slurs once Ivy finally frees herself from his grasp to go set up the solarium for their interrogation, Selina in tow behind her. His eyes are unfocused as if covered in a thin film and he’s swaying on the spot like one of those old Weeble toys. How did the commercial go? Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down, or something like that. “What are you doing here?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, Malone,” Oswald spits.

A few moments later, Butch and Tabitha finally strut in.

“Were they followed?” Oswald questions, eyes darting between the two of them.

“Nope,” Butch says as he slips his gun away. “Zsasz has stayed behind, though. Just in case. And Tommy and a few of his boys are keeping an eye on all the routes out of the city.”

“Malone’s staff seemed happy to be rid of him, to be honest. One of the bartenders even stopped the two of them before leaving to check that Ivy was absolutely sure she wanted to go home with him,” Tabitha adds.

Oswald releases a relieved breath. “Good,” he says. Walking up to Malone, Oswald cocks his head up to compensate for the few inches he has on him and mockingly pats his cheek. “We’re going to have a little talk, Stevie,” he says sweetly.

Grinning widely, Butch’s lets his prosthetic hand come down heavily on Malone’s shoulder and frog marches him in the direction Ivy and Selina had disappeared.

* * *

In the middle of Ivy’s solarium, a chair sits innocently next to a metal trolley piled high with various bottles of liquids and powders. Rope, zip ties and duct tape are placed precariously near the edge, all neatly lined up.

“I didn’t know what would be best,” Ivy explains in an excited rush.

Butch pushes Malone down into the chair and wrenches his arms behind him.

“Zip ties,” he demands, hand stretched out towards Ivy, his palm facing up. Oswald quietly approves.

“So what exactly will you be giving him? Isn’t he already at your mercy enough that he’ll just tell you what you want to know?” Oswald asks as Butch busies himself with making sure their captive is secure.

Ivy shakes her head, her red hair tumbling over her shoulders as she does so. “What I used to get him here worked because he already wanted to come home with me, to please me. But the sort of information _you_ want goes deeper. He needs to feel physically compelled to hand it over. Like,” she pauses to chew her lip, “If he doesn’t tell the truth he’ll die. So, I have this.”

She selects a bottle filled with a lime green powder and holds it up as if she is on a home shopping channel. Everyone automatically leans forward in anticipation, eager to see. With the room’s attention firmly on her, she uncaps the bottle and sprinkles a heaped mound of powder into the palm of her hand. Then, bending down at the waist, she blows it into Malone’s face. It glitters as it twirls through the air, dancing elegantly before coating his collar and shoulders in a light dusting they’ll have to scrub off before dumping him where ever will be the least incriminating.

“How long until it takes effect?” Oswald questions quietly.

“It should be instantaneous.”

An awkward silence falls and Oswald’s certain he isn’t the only one holding his breath.

“You should probably ask some control questions, right?” Butch eventually asks after a minute or two.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, Butch, but we’re not exactly best friends. I don’t know the name of his childhood dog or his deepest, darkest fear,” Oswald sneers.

“Oi, Malone. What’s the date today?” Selina butts in as she elbows her way in between Ivy and Oswald.

Oswald pinches the bridge of his nose.

“He hasn’t got amnesia, for God’s sake, he—”

“27th February,” Malone answers immediately.

Encouraged by Selina taking the initiative, Ivy pipes up with an enthused, “What’s your favourite colour?”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “Oh, yes, because that will _definitely_ —”

“Blue.”

“Boring,” Selina sing-songs as Ivy nods in agreement. “Celebrity crush,” Selina then quickly decides on.

“Ooh, good one,” Ivy compliments.

“Can we not?” Oswald screeches.

His shriek reverberates off what's left of the broken glass that makes up Ivy's solarium before an awkward silence is left in its wake.

“Betty White.”

They all stop to look at Malone as he smiles serenely back at them.

“Huh,” Butch says eloquently.

“Actually, that’s not a bad route to take,” Tabitha says. She has her arms tightly crossed, fingertips distractedly tapping against her leather clad biceps, and brows drawn together in a thoughtful frown. “We should try asking him something he wouldn’t necessarily admit to out loud. Something that could potentially land him in serious hot water if he said it to the wrong person.”

Oswald knows what she’s implying and, honestly, it’s a good idea. He just resents that it’s come from her. Especially as it means putting _himself_ in the firing line.

Bracing his hands against the arms of the chair he’s tied to, Oswald leans threateningly over Malone. He wrinkles his nose in distaste. Not even the pleasantly floral aroma of Ivy’s plants can completely disguise the smell of his cheap cologne.

Unlike his unfocused, glassy gaze from when they first arrived, he’s now blank. Not a lick of recognition as to where he is and or who’s in front of him. It’s disconcerting.

“Malone, what do you think of me?” Oswald asks carefully and it’s as if a switch has been flicked; his eyes brighten and the twitch of nerves, quiver of fine hairs, flutter of eyelashes, and pull of skin that all come together to form human expression bring his face back to life.

“You’re good at talking, I’ll give you that. You know how to lock down a deal,” Malone begins grudgingly, eyes pinched as if it pains him to admit even that much. Oswald preens, chest puffing out on instinct, but then Malone’s face suddenly crumbles into a sneer and Oswald instinctively takes a surprised step back. “But Jesus fucking Christ I can’t stand the sight of you,” he growls, spittle flying from his mouth.

Oswald’s blood runs cold.

“How is it someone like you, someone not even fit to lick my boots, gets to lord it over me and others like me? True, born and bred gangsters. _Real_ men. Strutting around in your fancy suits. It’s an embarrassment. What I wouldn’t give to wrap my hands round that skinny little neck—”

“Okay,” Oswald interrupts with a strained croak. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Ivy gently lays a supportive hand on his arm which he immediately shakes it off. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. His position has protected him from the worst of it more recently what with men too afraid to spew their bigotry to his face now that he can end them with a single word, but it never gets any easier.

Taking a moment to straighten out his jacket and compose himself, he leans back over him. “Who gave you the money for your bar?”

Malone’s eyes spark back to life once more. “Real clean-cut looking guy. Had an accent. English? Maybe Australian. All sounds the same to me. He never gave a name.”

“Makes sense if he’s in the blackmail and ransom game,” Butch offers.

“Is he part of a group?” Oswald continues, encouraged.

“Oh, yeah. I actually only met him once, back when he first approached me. All the details were sorted out by grunts. It was like he needed to get a feel of me personally before moving forward with anything. See if I was worth his investment. Which I clearly was,” Malone adds smugly.

Tabitha snorts. “Investment? Talk about deluded.”

“What are the chances that first guy is the one running it all?” Selina asks, intrigued.

“It’s possible,” Oswald allows. “Whoever this group are, they’re an unknown quantity. Shadows and whispers rather than anything tangible. And deliberately so. Showing his face, even once, was a risk, but never underestimate the egotism of a criminal. It’s what makes serial killers leave calling cards, after all. Do you know where they’re working out of, Malone?”

Malone gives an exaggerated nod, his chin almost hitting his chest. “They took me to their offices a few times; Leeroy Street in Old Gotham. Building 203, floor 10,” he recites dutifully.

“That’s a few blocks over from the GCPD,” Selina points out. “I doubt it’s their main base unless they’re particularly stupid.”

“Definitely,” Malone agrees. “I overheard two of them chatting about how much of a shithole The Cauldron is and whether if they got enough of them together they could convince their boss to move somewhere else.”

Ivy gasps. “That makes sense as I was just by Park Row Theater when I saw Mr. Nygma!” She adds excitedly.

Butch whistles, impressed. “Using the old headquarters of the Sullivan and Riley families sure is ballsy.”

“Or egotistical,” Tabitha suggests, echoing Oswald’s earlier assessment.

“Not to mention it’s practically hitmen central,” Selina adds.

Ignoring them all, Oswald instead turns to Ivy in surprise. “You go that far into The East End on your own just to pick up supplies?” he asks with grudging respect.

“My plants are worth it,” she replies flippantly.

Oswald shakes his head in bemusement. “Zsasz will no doubt have a lot of contacts in that area,” he directs to Butch and Tabitha. “I think we’re ready to put a plan together. Pitting the Bianchis, O’Dowds and Wongs against each other is small fry. _Easy_. Anyone could do that. He made a huge mistake thinking he could fuck with me.”


End file.
